


Tear Drop City

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [6]
Category: Elfquest, The Monkees
Genre: Decadence, Friendship, Gang of Four, Gen, Tower Mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 74,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a young elf named Piet who came to visit his uncle, the ruler of a vast and wonderful civilization.  To his overwhelming joy, his uncle invited Piet and his three closest friends to dwell in that place forever...</p><p>...or at least, for the rest of their lives...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published as a separate novel/zine in 1991 by Hydra's-Head Press (i.e. Tower Mountain Holt)

“High Ones! Will you look at the size of that bird!”

Longshanks glanced up from the deer carcass he was skinning and followed the line of Bugdance’s pointing finger. Next to Bugdance, Heartseeker leaned on his bow and squinted into the sky, one hand shading his deep brown eyes from the afternoon sun. “Rionn’s shaft!” the small elf exclaimed. “I’ve never seen one that size. Those wings must be three hands of elves across if they’re a handbreadth.”

“More like four hands of you, short stuff,” Bugdance quipped. “What d’you think it is, Longshanks? A buzzard?”

Longshanks peered worriedly up at the dark, winged shape. “Looks more like a hawk to me,” he ventured, “but I never heard of one growing that big before. Prairie fires!” he cursed suddenly. Almost directly above the three elves, the huge bird had wheeled and begun a circling descent. “I think it’s spotted us.”

“Uh-oh. Why do I suddenly feel a lot like a hopper too far away from its hole?” Bugdance asked no one in particular. “Told you we should have taken that under the trees.”

“Maybe it just wants the deer,” Heartseeker said hopefully.

“If it does, I think maybe we’d better let it have it,” Bugdance suggested. “There’s plenty more where that came from. I really don’t feel like arguing with Big-beak up there.”

“Right.” The long-legged plains elf got to his feet and began to edge away from the carcass, still watching the bird. “Get ready to scatter. Bugdance, you head for that patch of brush. Heartseeker, you try for those rocks. I’m fastest, so I’ll make a run for the woods—”

Heartseeker’s dark brows drew together. “ _You_ run,” he said, beginning to string his bow. “If it tries for either of you, I’ll distract it.”

“Are you crazy? An arrow wouldn’t be more’n a fleabite to _that_! ’Sides, you’ve got to warn Halfwise. Your sending’s better than mine. Tell him to stay in the woods and—wait a moment! What’s it doing?”

The great bird’s descent had stopped. Voicing a long scream, it wheeled once more and soared back the way it had come. The huge wings began to beat, carrying it swiftly toward sun-up until it was lost to view.

“Phew!” Bugdance exclaimed in relief, running a brown hand through his bushy curls. “That was close.”

Longshanks stared after the bird for a moment, then pushed back his close-fitting tufted green cap and scratched his dark head in puzzlement. “Now, I wonder what made it do that.”

“I dunno,” said Bugdance, “but d’you think you could finish that in the woods?” He gestured at the deer. “I’ll feel a lot better when we’re under the trees.”

Longshanks nodded. “For once I agree with you. Want to give me a hand with it?”

When the three friends reached the nearby patch of woodland, Halfwise was waiting for them just inside the trees, with Nosey the coati, Bugdance’s bondbeast, perched on one shoulder and Flitterleaf, the Preserver, on the other. “I found a good camping place,” he said. “It has a little stream. I think I can find some starflower root too, if I look.”

“Sounds fine, Halfwise,” Longshanks told him. “Just don’t go outside the woods, hear?” When Halfwise looked at him questioningly, he and the other two told the sandy-haired elf about their brush with the giant bird.

“Oh!” Halfwise exclaimed. “I heard it! And I felt someone going over.” He waved a hand above his head by way of illustration.

“’Someone’?” Bugdance gave him an amused glance. “Don’t you mean ‘something’? Oh well, maybe birds are people too.”

“Someone,” Halfwise insisted. “Someone watchful.”

“Well, that’s probably true enough,” Longshanks admitted.

Over the turns they had been together, the plains elf and his friends had learned to trust the inexplicable “feelings” or “knowings” that had earned Halfwise his nickname. It seemed to Longshanks that these had become more frequent over the past turn or two, though he could not be sure. At the same time he felt his childlike friend was slowly becoming more alert and aware, as if he had begun to shake off at last the simple-mindedness that still occasionally exasperated his companions—as if he was, finally, growing up. A hand of turns ago, Longshanks would never have sent Halfwise on alone into a strange wood while the three of them hunted, even with Flitterleaf for protection.

The sandy-haired elf glanced at the dead deer that Longshanks and Bugdance carried between them, the head with its glazed brown eyes dangling. His lower lip began to quiver. Longshanks sighed inwardly. His friend wasn’t there yet, not by a long shot. “Halfwise, why don’t you and Heartseeker go along and make camp while Bugdance and I finish this? We’ll be along in a little while.”

 

By the next morning the incident with the bird had been largely forgotten by the four. Longshanks set to work staking out the deerhide in a patch of morning sun preparatory to scraping it. Halfwise went off with Flitterleaf to look for the starflower root he had mentioned the day before. Bugdance and Nosey took to the trees to do some arboreal exploring of this latest patch of woods, while Heartseeker stood watch.

The plains elf whistled softly through his teeth as he worked, a new-green song of warm winds and sprouting grasses, while pondering how the tanned hide could best be put to use. Now that White-time was over, there would be less need for blankets and cloaks, especially in these warmer lands of rolling hills and patchy woodlands. They could all use new boots, though, as the pleasant weather allowed for more travel. His own and Halfwise’s in particular were worn nearly to nothing. He sat back on his heels and squinted at the hide. If he was careful, he should be able to get two pairs of boots out of it.

The attack came with almost no warning. All Longshanks got was a wordless mental yelp of surprise from Heartseeker before the humans burst out of the trees. They were good, he had to give them that. There couldn’t be many humans in the world capable of sneaking past the small hunter, and the speed with which they knocked Longshanks’ knife out of his hand was nothing short of embarrassing. Not bothering to try and retrieve the weapon, Longshanks dove between two of the advancing warriors and made a run for it, but a straight, smooth, deftly thrown stick somehow got tangled up with his legs and he fell hard. Before he could get his breath back, he was grabbed and pinned down by two sets of strong, five-fingered hands. Twisting wildly, he managed to catch a glimpse of Heartseeker being dragged into the camp by two more humans. The hunter’s small body hung limp, but an anxious sending from Longshanks revealed that his friend was still semi-conscious.

Before the plains elf could gather his wits enough to send to the other two, Bugdance came leaping down from the branches overhead with a bloodcurdling screech. He landed on the back of one of Heartseeker’s captors, causing the startled man to drop the small elf’s arm, while his hunting knife slashed at the human’s shoulder. But the elves were badly outnumbered. Though Bugdance managed to immobilize his foe momentarily by wrapping his legs around the man’s arms, three more quickly seized the curly-haired elf and peeled him off their companion. Soon Bugdance was as helplessly pinned as Longshanks. The man he had wounded glared at him venomously, though he made no move toward the elf as yet.

Longshanks’ stomach lurched as he saw leather cords appear from the humans’ belt pouches. _No!_ he thought. _Not again!_ Longshanks had been a captive of humans once before, caged for them to gawk at; the memory of those hopeless days from which Bugdance had rescued him still haunted him occasionally. He began to struggle harder in the humans’ grasp as one of them advanced on him with the thongs.

The jungle elf, unable to strike out at his captors physically, was pelting them with verbal abuse. “Let _go_ of me, you whelps of a lame treecat and a drove of desperate bristle-boars!” Heartseeker was beginning to wake up, though Longshanks hoped the small elf would be canny enough not to let the humans know that right away. If one of them could win free…

Just then Halfwise came charging through the trees. Longshanks fired off a frantic sending—**Piet, no!**—but the sandy-haired elf either did not receive it or ignored it. Rushing up to the nearest human, he grabbed the man’s arm and shook it, shouting, “Stop it! Let my friends go!” Flitterleaf came skimming after him, its protruding eyes glittering with anticipation as if it was only trying to decide whom to web first.

The human whirled on Halfwise and reached out to grab him. All of a sudden he froze, staring at the young elf. Then, to Longshanks’ utter shock, the human gave a hoarse cry— _“Bakhansha-ná!”_ —and dropped to his knees.

Halfwise was just as bewildered by this behavior as Longshanks. He stood blinking in confusion as the rest of the humans turned to stare at him. The Preserver, seeming equally nonplussed, came to a halt in midair and then alit on Halfwise’s shoulder. Longshanks felt the hands on him loosen, though they did not let go. Those humans who were not busy holding down him and Bugdance followed the example of their companion.

Finally the tallest of the humans, a lean, muscular man with a scattering of gray hairs among his straight dark locks, rose to his feet and stepped toward Halfwise. “Forgive us, Honored One,” he said in oddly accented but perfectly understandable elvish. “We did not realize … if we have erred—” He swallowed noticeably.

“Who are you?” Halfwise demanded, looking up at the tall human. “Why are you holding my friends?”

“We are the chosen warriors of the Great Spirit, Honored One,” the man replied with a hint of pride. “He has requested your presence. If we have been … er … over-zealous in carrying out his command, we beg pardon, but … that is, we did not know—” He nervously fingered the gold neck-ring he wore. At that moment Longshanks realized that all the humans wore the same kind of neck-ring, set with a blue stone. They were a bit like Halfwise’s gold torc, which gleamed at the young elf’s throat as the sunlight struck it, but Halfwise’s was much more elaborate and had no gem.

Halfwise, seeming to gain courage from the human’s deference, drew himself up and said, “Let my friends go!”

“Yes, yes! Nastybad bigthings!” Flitterleaf seconded him, shaking a minuscule green finger at the humans. “Take hands off tallcap highthing and bushytop highthing now! Softhead highthing say so!” The tall human, with an astonished glance at the brightly colored Preserver, turned and motioned to his warriors. To Longshanks’ amazement the humans holding him down let go of him and stepped away. He got to his feet a little unsteadily. Bugdance did the same, then went over to help Heartseeker up. The small elf looked as if he might make a dash for the brush at any moment, but Bugdance, less hostile to humans to begin with, looked around at this group with a lively curiosity in his dark eyes.

**What’s going on, Longshanks?** he sent. **What do they see in Halfwise, of all people?**

**Cursed if I know,** Longshanks replied. **I think it may have something to do with his torc, though. Let’s just keep quiet for a while. I’m getting curious too.”

The tall human addressed Halfwise again. “We are the spirits’ to command, of course, but we—ask that you come with us. Truly, we mean no harm to you or your friends.”

“Oh yeah?” Heartseeker spoke up, glaring at the human as he rubbed his sore head. “And what if we don’t want to come with you?”

The human cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The Great Spirit has commanded that we bring you to him. We do not wish to force you, but the Spirit Lord would be very angry if we did not carry out his wishes. I—I beg of you to come, gentle spirits. I swear by all the spirits of the Mountain that you will not be harmed.”

**Have a heart on the poor guy, Heartseeker,** Bugdance sent with a hint of amusement. **He looks like he’s about to have an accident in his breeches. Besides,** he pointed out, **they’ve got our weapons.**

**I can get a new bow,** Heartseeker returned darkly, **a lot easier than I can get a new head. I don’t trust these humans or their ‘spirits’.**

**I don’t trust ’em either,** Longshanks sent, **but it isn’t really a question of whether we trust them or not. They’re being awful polite all of a sudden, High Ones only know why, but they’ve still got the jump on us. Our best chance may be to go along quietly now and catch ’em off guard later on.** Heartseeker nodded reluctantly. Longshanks sent to Halfwise, **Tell him we’ll come.**

Halfwise glanced at him uncertainly, then turned back to the human leader. “All right, we’ll come with you,” he said. “But don’t hurt my friends anymore.”

The tall human looked immensely relieved at Halfwise’s acquiescence. Though he did not return the elves’ weapons, he allowed them to gather up the rest of their gear as he and his warriors watched, and sling their travel packs on their backs. Flitterleaf, after making a circuit or two of the clearing, shrilling directions as to how it thought the packing should be done, crept into its accustomed niche in Halfwise’s pack.

Just as they were about to leave the clearing, a long-tailed furry shape dropped down from the trees overhead and landed on Bugdance’s shoulders. Some of the humans started. The curly-haired elf grinned. “Nosey! Glad you decided to join the party, old friend. Wouldn’t want to leave you behind.” He tickled the coati’s ear as it nuzzled him. Then he turned to the humans, flinging out his arms. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go meet this ‘Great Spirit’ of yours!” He marched out of the clearing so briskly that the humans had to hurry to catch up with him.

The oddly assorted group moved through the woods at a fairly quick pace. Longshanks noticed that though the humans were no longer overtly threatening, they evidently did not mean to let the elves get away. He and his friends were unobtrusively surrounded by tall, leather-clad warriors who still held the straight, smooth pairs of sticks they fought with. A little farther on, the rearmost of the humans paused to collect a sheaf of eight metal-bladed spears that had been leaning against a tree. Longshanks wondered uneasily about the humans’ motives. He had heard some ugly stories from Heartseeker about humans and their “spirits,” how some captured and sacrificed elves to their imagined deities. He hoped this was not what the human leader meant by “taking them to meet the Great Spirit.”

It was Halfwise who voiced some of the elves’ questions. “Where are we going?” he asked the tall human. “Where are you taking us?”

“We go to Tower Mountain, the home of the spirits,” the man answered. “Surely you—” He broke off and gave Halfwise a puzzled glance, then shrugged.

“Are they friendly spirits?” Halfwise asked a little anxiously.

The human touched his gold neck-ring. “The spirits of the Mountain have always been good to our people, since the time of our first ancestors,” he said as if repeating a lesson. “To serve them is our duty and our privilege.”

“Oh.” Halfwise seemed taken aback by the formality of the human’s reply, but after a moment his curiosity surfaced again. “What are the spirits like? Have you ever seen them?”

The human stiffened. “As the chosen warriors of the Great Spirit, _we_ serve the spirits personally. I have often been in the presence of the Spirit Lord himself,” he added proudly, “and taken instruction from his own lips.”

“What are they like, then?”

Again the human looked at Halfwise oddly; then his face cleared. “Ah, you test me? Do not doubt that I know whereof I speak. The spirits of the Mountain are wise and powerful and fair. They hold mastery over tree and stone and sky. They tread upon the air and make earth and fire do their bidding. The works of their hands are beyond compare. They are more beautiful than the dawn, and the passing seasons do not fade or wither them as they do mortal men.”

**The way he’s talking, you’d think we were on our way to the Lost Dwelling of the High Ones!** Bugdance sent with a mental snicker.

**Humans always talk about their gods like that,** Heartseeker informed him. **It makes them feel important, I guess.**

**Mm-hmm. Same way we talk about the High Ones,** Longshanks observed dryly. **Guess that makes us not too different, doesn’t it?**

At length they emerged from the woods onto a green plain. The daystar was almost at its zenith. The sunlight glinted on a lake away off to their right. Before them rose a long, brush-dotted ridge. To the right its slope was gradual, curving away from them to sun-up, but its other end was cut off sharply at a much steeper angle.

“Is that it?” Halfwise asked, pointing. “Is that Tower Mountain?”

“That is the shield-wall of the Redrock Valley,” the human leader answered. “Tower Mountain is within. You will see it soon.” He led them out onto the plain, heading toward the angled end of the ridge.

Bugdance had taken a scrap of leather from his belt pouch while they walked and was amusing himself by playing “keep-away” with Nosey. Longshanks noticed a couple of the younger humans watching with barely concealed fascination as the coati clambered over Bugdance’s brown arms and shoulders and curly head, trying to snatch the tempting object that always dangled just a fingerbreadth or two from his long nose. This was a favorite game; Longshanks had often suspected Bugdance could play it in his sleep. The suspicion was strengthened when he received a locksending from the seemingly preoccupied jungle elf.

**Question, Longshanks—how does this human know our language?**

**Zwoot dung! Hadn’t thought of that. Too surprised about that business with Halfwise, I guess. Hmm.** He thought for a moment. **I guess that means—**

**—there are elves around here somewhere,** Bugdance finished for him. **Or were. And they can’t be too unfriendly with these humans, either.**

**Maybe you better tell that to Heartseeker,** Longshanks commented. The small elf marched along doggedly, but he wore a black frown and his eyes shifted constantly as if trying to keep all the humans in sight at once. His hand hovered near the empty sheath of his short sword.

**Yeah,** Bugdance agreed. **But think! Once we get away from these humans, maybe we’ll be able to find these other elves. And maybe they’ve got _girls_!**

**Could be.** Despite his apprehensions, Longshanks’ spirits lifted. After all these turns, might the four of them at last find what they were looking for—a tribe of elves, a home and family?

He was still turning these thoughts over in his mind when they rounded the end of the ridge and had their first sight of Tower Mountain and the Redrock Valley.

It was like looking down into a huge tilted bowl. The valley was circular; the ridge ran along its hub-back edge for almost half its circumference, but even on the unshielded hubward side it was separated from the surrounding plain by the steep fall of the ground around its edge. The forested slopes leading up to the shield-wall were rugged, showing many outcroppings of the red rock that had presumably given the valley its name, but to hubward the land leveled and grew gentle, watered by tiny streams that ran from the surrounding slopes. There were small groves of trees, some shimmering with new leaves, others white or pink clouds of blossom; but most of the land resembled a patchwork design of varied shades of brown and green.

**Longshanks, am I seeing things,** Bugdance sent, **or are all those plants growing in straight lines?**

**You’re right, they are,** the plains elf sent in bewildered tones. **I’ve never seen anything like it. Weird! Don’t those blossom-trees remind you of something, though?**

**Uh-huh. That valley where we found Halfwise. We camped in a grove of ’em. Didn’t he say they were fruit trees?**

Their silent conversation was interrupted by the human leader. “That is Tower Mountain,” he announced, pointing.

The declaration was hardly necessary. The massive, flat-topped tower of red stone dominated the valley, standing out starkly against the soft green of the surrounding fields. No growing thing had been able to find a roothold on its rugged faces, though there seemed to be openings here and there high up on the sheer sides, and near the top there were many ledges. Longshanks could understand why the humans thought it the home of the spirits. The thrust of it drew the eye upward.

Suddenly the plains elf grabbed Bugdance’s shoulder, almost dislodging Nosey. **Look! That giant bird again!**

**Two of ’em!** Bugdance responded. **High Ones, d’you think this is where they nest?**

**Well, if I had to imagine a place…** The two elves watched the birds circling over the valley with apprehension as the tall human called out something in what sounded like a human tongue. Another human warrior rose from the brush at the valley’s rim. This one did not wear the golden neck-ring, and was armed with a bow rather than the smooth sticks. He and the leader exchanged a few words before the four elves and their escort passed him and continued down a steep, winding path into the valley.

**Those birds can’t be too dangerous,** Bugdance pointed out, **or the humans wouldn’t be living here.**

**Do they live here, or do they just, well, worship here?** Longshanks wondered.

Bugdance pointed off to one side, where a sizable group of mud-daub huts huddled half in, half out of a patch of trees. Human figures could be seen standing or sitting in the noonday sun, occupied with various tasks. **They live here.**

**That doesn’t seem to be where these humans are taking us.**

**Nope. We’re going to the ‘home of the spirits,’ remember?**

**Yeah. Whatever that means…**

The warriors and their charges indeed bypassed the village entirely, heading straight across the fields toward the upthrusting bulk of the mountain. They encountered other humans as they went, mostly digging between the rows of plants. All of these looked at them curiously before lowering their eyes in respect. Longshanks wondered what the warriors intended to do when they got to the mountain. Surely they weren’t going to climb that thing, though he supposed there might be a way up on the other side.

A harsh scream drew his eye upward again. Above them the birds were circling. As he watched, the giant hawks began to descend. **Do you have the feeling we’ve been through this before?** Bugdance sent, looking upward apprehensively.

The humans came to a halt, looking upward too, but they did not seem alarmed by the feathered monsters rapidly bearing down on them. Instead, as they neared, the warriors raised their sticks in salute, then lowered their weapons and bowed their heads. The pair of great hawks landed before them. It was only then the wanderers saw the broad leather collars the birds wore, and the riders on their backs.

The nearer of the riders dismounted with a fluid leap and came toward the humans. “What news, Torc Leader?” a clear, imperious voice called out. Longshanks and Bugdance looked at each other with a wild surmise. That voice had been elfin—and female. As the birdrider drew closer it became apparent their surmise was correct. Though the slender figure was tall, a good head taller than Longshanks, no human had ever moved with such grace. Her eyes were the large, luminous eyes of their own people, emerald green eyes in a pale, exquisitely featured face. Her thick rust-red hair was bound in a long tail at the crown of her head. The curves of her slender figure were accentuated by a closefitting bodysuit, black and midnight blue, with cuffs of bright red feathers.

The human leader bowed to this apparition. The four wanderers felt like doing the same. Heartseeker had quit watching the humans; his deep brown eyes were fixed on her with what was almost a look of worship. “We have carried out the Spirit Lord’s command, High One,” the tall human said. The four elves jumped. _High One?_

“Excellent, Torc Leader,” the tall female replied, sweeping the group with her eyes. Then she called over her shoulder, “Eylar?” The second rider dismounted and came toward her. He too was an elf, even taller than she, with a stern, hawklike face and black hair pulled severely back, dressed in black and silver. “Are these the—wanderers you saw?” the female asked him.

The black-haired rider scrutinized the four. “They are the same,” he confirmed, “but I saw only three. That one—” He nodded toward Halfwise. “—was not with them.”

“No matter,” she said negligently, waving one hand. “Four instead of three—our lord will be pleased.”

Halfwise, who had been staring openmouthed at the two birdriders, suddenly pointed at Eylar and burst out, “You’re the watchful one!” The black-haired rider glanced at him, startled. The female laughed deliciously.

“Not a bad description, is it, Eylar? That’s you, always—watching.” There was a subtle hint of mockery in her voice. The look the black-haired elf gave her was little short of a glare. She ignored it and turned to the humans. “You may go. We shall take them from here.”

“But … High One…” the leader began.

“Oh, do not worry,” she said impatiently. “We shall tell the Spirit Lord of your obedience. Now go!” The humans bowed to her. Then they all turned and trudged away. She glanced back at the four wanderers. “If you will come with us?”

“Anywhere!” Heartseeker murmured under his breath.

At a hand signal from their riders, the great birds lurched into the air and flapped away, screeching. The tall elves led the four once more toward the base of Tower Mountain.

Halfwise was still staring at the two birdriders. After a moment he blurted, “Are you really High Ones?”

The female threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder at the departing humans. “ _They_ think so.”

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. “You!” Longshanks exclaimed. “You’re their ‘spirits of the Mountain’!”

She laughed again like tinkling water. “Yes. We find it convenient—and amusing. Don’t we, Eylar?” The black-haired elf was silent.

Longshanks was still chewing over this revelation, not sure he liked the taste of it, when the group reached the base of the mountain. He expected they would turn aside and start circling toward whatever steep path led up the cliff. Instead they halted before a blank wall of red stone. A powerful sending lanced from the black-haired birdrider. **Door, open!**

Halfwise let out a low gasp. The stone wall in front of them began to shudder like a live thing. Then it parted as cleanly and silently as curtains drawn aside, revealing a straight, smooth passage beyond. The two tall elves stepped through the opening. After a moment’s hesitation, the wanderers followed them. Longshanks glanced back over his shoulder and spotted an elf seated in an elaborately ornamented niche above the opening in the rock, a brightly robed elf with a tall, plumed headdress set upon dark curly hair. The elf sat moveless as stone, dark eyes staring expressionlessly into space.

 _A rockshaper,_ Longshanks told himself. _That’s all it is. A rockshaper, like Halfwise talks about sometimes, like his father was. Nothing to get spooked at._ But he did not like the long-faced elf’s unnatural stillness. He could not quell a twinge of apprehension when Eylar sent, **Door, close!** and the wall melted shut behind them. As he turned away, he thought he caught a green and yellow flutter out of the tail of his eye, but their guides were moving ahead quickly and Longshanks did not feel like confronting the rockshaper’s blank stare again. Instead he concentrated on keeping close to Halfwise.

The group walked down a short corridor that suddenly opened out into a vast soaring space. The four wanderers halted in confusion, thinking for a moment they had somehow stepped outside again. But the space proved to be a cavern many lengths across, going up farther than they could take in at one glance, festooned with a huge spiral formation running up its inner walls. Light came from high above. Longshanks drew close to Halfwise, who was staring around at the cavern with a queer expression on his face. “Something wrong, Halfwise?” the plains elf murmured, taking his friend’s elbow.

“N-no, not—not wrong, exactly. I don’t think.” Halfwise looked worried all the same. “But—magic! This whole mountain is full of magic! It feels like … like…”

Before he could finish the sentence, a smooth, languid voice came to them from another opening in the cavern wall. “Why, Doleera! And Eylar! Fancy meeting you here. Finished your patrol so soon?” Another of the tall elves came strolling toward them. He had a pale, foxlike face and long, dark brown hair clasped at the nape of his neck. He too had on a skin-tight bodysuit of dark brown, but over it he wore a loose thigh-length robe of deep red, heavily embroidered with gold.

“Hello, Beliel.” Doleera’s voice was honey-sweet. Eylar merely nodded to the newcomer, who returned the favor.

“What’s this?” the brown-haired elf went on, turning to the four wanderers with raised eyebrows. “The savages? My dear, you are insatiable!”

Eylar stiffened. “Lord Tyaar requested that these Outsiders be brought to him.”

“Indeed,” the other said with a mocking laugh. “There will be no squabbles this time, eh? But what does my lord want with these barbarians, I wonder? There must be something to recommend them that I am not aware of.” He stepped closer and looked the four wanderers over as if he were inspecting a not particularly appetizing bowl of fruit. His dark gaze slid across each of them in turn, coming to Halfwise last. His eyebrows flicked up slightly, then went rapidly higher before drawing down over narrowed eyes. His sardonic smile had faded. “Hmm,” he said softly, “perhaps my lord will find them of interest after all. I shall take them to him.”

“Eylar found them, Beliel,” Doleera said. There was a slight edge to her voice now.

“My lord is well aware of that,” Beliel said smoothly. “But I am sure you and Eylar have matters more important to attend to than escorting—er—Outsiders— _within_ Tower Mountain.” He and the red-haired female locked eyes for a brief moment. Then she turned away with a shrug.

“I suppose you are right. Very well, we shall leave them in your capable hands while we make our report to Twillor. Shall we go, Eylar?” Eylar nodded stiffly. He and Doleera sprang into the air and went gliding up the wall of the cavern until they disappeared into an opening far above. The four wanderers were left with Beliel. Heartseeker was looking after Doleera in wistful astonishment. Longshanks was not at all sure he liked the change of escort either, and it was not only because Doleera was pleasanter to look at.

“Come with me.” The brown-haired elf’s tone was curt, but not mocking as it had been before. He led them across the cavern to another opening, a decorated archway, then down a short corridor, through a wide doorway flanked by two gold-torced human warriors who bowed as they passed, and into a spacious hall. This one was not as incomprehensibly large as the cavern they had first entered, but it was more ornate. At the far end on a raised dais stood a richly ornamented high-backed seat from which a slender blond elfin figure, taller than any they had seen yet, was rising, his heavy embroidered cloak swirling about him.

A strange sound broke from Halfwise, a small, choked noise midway between a gasp and a sob. To the others’ shock, he pulled away from Longshanks’ supportive hand on his elbow and ran forward.

The robed elf stiffened. “Beliel, what is the meaning of this—” At the sound of his voice, and as his high-boned, fine-featured face caught the light of the lamps that illuminated the hall, Halfwise halted as abruptly as if he had run into a wall. He stood for a moment, trembling, then fell to his knees, staring at the tall blond elf.

Beliel strode toward him. “I am at a loss to explain his reaction, my lord Tyaar. But I thought you should see this.” He took the unresisting Halfwise’s chin in his hand and raised his head. The golden torc around the young elf’s neck gleamed in the lamplight.

Lord Tyaar descended from the dais and came several steps forward, then halted as abruptly as Halfwise had done. The hiss of his indrawn breath was clearly audible. He stepped forward again, slowly, until he was directly in front of Halfwise. He gazed into the wide brown eyes that looked up at him, tears streaming from them. His fingers reached out to touch the golden neck-ring. “Child,” he said in a carefully neutral tone, “where did you get this?”

“It’s mine,” Halfwise answered. “My father made it for me.”

Beliel made a startled exclamation which Lord Tyaar cut off with a quick gesture. The blond elf’s ice-blue eyes bored into Halfwise’s. “And who was your father?”

“Lord Meiron,” the young elf said. “Lord Meiron of the Hidden Valley.”

“My lord, he must be lying,” Beliel burst out. “Meiron’s craftsmanship and symbolism are unmistakable, of course. I knew them myself at once. But—his father? Why, this one cannot have seen more than an eight-of-eights, if that.”

“’Scuse me,” Longshanks broke in with an annoyed glance at Beliel, “but that isn’t exactly so. Bugdance and me, we found young Halfwise there wrapped up in a sort of cocoon. Stopped time, according to him. No telling how long he’d been there … but I reckon he’s older’n any of us, in a way.”

“Indeed.” Tyaar sounded interested, but Beliel still looked disbelieving.

“Even so, my lord, we both know that Meiron’s Recognized mate died—and the sole child of their Recognition is here, in Tower Mountain.”

“Conception outside of Recognition is not unknown, Beliel,” Tyaar said dryly.

“Oh, but Father and Mother _were_ Recognized,” said Halfwise. “Mother always said it was a blessing from the High Ones.”

“Did she now,” murmured Tyaar. Looking into the young elf’s eyes again, he ran a long hand along the line of Halfwise’s jaw, along the edge of one pointed ear that was, Longshanks saw, the same shape as Tyaar’s own. That was true of all these stranger elves, Longshanks realized suddenly: they all had the same short ears as Halfwise. And the young elf’s complexion had once been almost as pale as theirs, he remembered, before turns of travel under the sun had darkened it.

Lord Tyaar’s fingers brushed Halfwise’s temple, then returned to the golden torc. Finally he laid his hand on the young elf’s head. “Welcome, son of my brother,” he said. “Welcome to Tower Mountain.”

Halfwise stared at him dumbly. His three friends exchanged astonished glances. Halfwise and this regal elf were _related_? “I am your uncle, child,” Tyaar confirmed with a warm smile. “Meiron was my brother.” His face froze momentarily. “Is it possible that he yet lives?”

Halfwise’s eyes dropped. “No, he’s dead,” he whispered. “Trolls attacked the city, and Father went out to fight them, and he didn’t come back … and then Mother…”

“Enough,” Tyaar interrupted gently, hearing Halfwise’s voice begin to thicken with tears. “We shall hear the full tale later, when you are rested. For now, it is enough that you are here.” Taking the young elf by the shoulders, he drew him to his feet and embraced him. “Think of me as a father, son of Meiron, and of Tower Mountain as your new home.” Turning to Beliel, he said, “Ask Kesik to see about finding suitable chambers for my nephew, would you, Beliel?”

The brown-haired elf seemed subdued, as surprised by the revelation as the four wanderers. “At once, my lord,” he replied, and went out.

Lord Tyaar turned back to Halfwise and smiled. “There is at least one other in Tower Mountain who should be as glad as I to welcome you, nephew.” His face grew momentarily distant. None of the other elves were privy to his sending, but they could feel the power of it quivering in the air about them. Then Lord Tyaar looked at his nephew again. “Now—what is it they called you? Halfwise?” His smile grew faintly satiric. “That cannot be what Meiron named you.”

“Oh, no,” Halfwise answered readily. “My real name is—”

**Halfwise, no!** Longshanks locksent in alarm.

His friend gave him a puzzled look. **It’s all right,** he sent back. **He’s my uncle.** Longshanks thought he saw Tyaar’s smile deepen and take on a mocking air, as if he had overheard the exchange … but that was absurd. No one could listen in on a locksending. And maybe it was all right. The elves of the Hidden Valley, Halfwise’s original home, had used their true names without fear. Perhaps it was the same here. The names he had heard these stranger elves use did not sound like the tribe-names he was accustomed to. But he still felt a chill run through him as Halfwise turned back to Tyaar and said, “I’m Piet.”

“Piet. Yes, that is much more fitting. And your—companions?” The lord of Tower Mountain glanced at the three elves standing near the back of the throne room as if noticing them for the first time.

“They’re my friends,” Halfwise said happily. “This is Longshanks, and this is Bugdance, and that’s Heartseeker. Oh! And I forgot Nosey. And—where’s Flitterleaf?” he asked, looking suddenly worried.

Longshanks frowned. “Isn’t it in your pack?”

Halfwise twisted around, trying to look into the pack on his back. “I don’t think so. Flitterleaf?” There was no response. “It must have climbed out when we weren’t looking.”

“Well, don’t worry—it’ll turn up. Always does…”

“Flitterleaf?” Lord Tyaar asked mildly.

“Flitterleaf’s a Preserver,” Halfwise told him. “It came with me from the Hidden Valley. I hope it didn’t get lost.”

“A Preserver,” Tyaar repeated.

“Yes, a bright green one with green and yellow wings,” Halfwise added helpfully.

“Well. If it is here, it will be found, I promise you.” The blond elf’s brow knitted briefly. Longshanks got the impression he was sending, but could not be sure. After a moment Lord Tyaar addressed Halfwise again. “Tell me, nephew … how did you come to be in such—varied company?”

“Longshanks and Bugdance found me,” Halfwise answered. “I was in wrapstuff. Mother had Flitterleaf wrap me up when the trolls came and told it to wait for highthings to come, and finally Longshanks and Bugdance came and let me out. Then we met Heartseeker later. We’ve been looking for other elves. Especially girls,” he added importantly.

“I see,” Tyaar replied with amusement. “Well, it seems you have found what you were seeking. We may even be able to provide—ah, Mikail!”

In an archway at one side of the throne room stood a slender elf clad in a closefitting blue and silver bodysuit. His coloring was similar to Tyaar’s, but his blond hair was shaggy, with a hint of brown in it, while his features had an entirely different cast. He crossed the room with a catlike grace, his slippered feet seeming barely to brush the ground. “You sent for me, my lord Tyaar?” Inquiring blue eyes turned first on the lord of Tower Mountain and then on the four strangers.

“Yes. We have some new arrivals in Tower Mountain, as you see. And one—” Tyaar took Halfwise by the shoulders and turned him to face Mikail. “This is Piet, son of Meiron,” he said softly. “He is your brother.”

Astonishment flooded the lithe elf’s face. His wide-eyed gaze met Tyaar’s for a few moments. Tyaar nodded briefly, then gave a small shake of his head. The blue eyes lowered for an instant, then turned back to Halfwise. Slowly Mikail approached him, laid hesitant fingers on his shoulder, searched his young face, reached out with his other hand to touch his golden torc. “My brother,” he whispered at last.

Halfwise looked back at him wonderingly. “Father never told me I had a brother.”

“That is not surprising,” said Lord Tyaar. “Your father was separated from us long ago, before the founding of Tower Mountain. Though we searched long, we could never find him and those with him. Finally we gave them up for dead. I do not doubt that they did the same with respect to us. But Mikail is the son of Meiron and his—first—Recognized lifemate, Natalya. Your half-brother, to be precise.”

Mikail glanced at Tyaar. “My father Recognized again?”

“So it seems.” A faint, enigmatic smile appeared on his uncle’s face. “Perhaps there is life in the old blood yet.”

Mikail’s eyes closed briefly. Tears glistened on his lashes. “I am glad, glad,” he whispered. “Glad he found new life, new happiness…” His eyes opened again. “And I am glad you are here, my brother.” His arms went around Halfwise and hugged him tightly. After a surprised moment, Halfwise returned his embrace, his sunny smile wakening. “Welcome, Piet,” Mikail murmured, holding his brother close.

Longshanks glanced over at his other two companions. Bugdance was grinning wickedly as if to say, _Aww, isn’t that sweet?_ Heartseeker, more unabashedly sentimental, was smiling wholeheartedly. Longshanks wanted to share their happiness, to be glad Halfwise had so unexpectedly found his family.

So why did he feel like he’d just been kicked in the stomach?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tower elves hold a banquet and dance performance to welcome Lord Tyaar's nephew and his companions.

“You see, Longshanks, what did I tell you? Didn’t I always say we’d find other elves someday? And did we ever!” Bugdance exulted. The curly-haired elf lounged at his ease chest-deep in hot water. Wisps of vapor framed his grinning face. “Look at this!” He flung up an arm dramatically, sending droplets flying and splashy echoes reverberating from the vaulted ceiling of the bath chamber. “The High Ones should have had it so good. And not only do we find elves, and not only do they live in a style to which I hope we will rapidly become accustomed … best of all, they’ve got _girls_! Right, Heartseeker?”

“Right,” the small elf echoed dreamily. His head (all that showed above the steaming water, for chest-deep on Bugdance was neck-deep to him) was spinning with all the varied beauties that had passed before his eyes in the past couple of days, many of them female.

Longshanks didn’t say anything. Bugdance glanced over at him, then submerged completely. A moment later his curly head broke the surface and squirted a thin stream of water with deadly accuracy into the lanky elf’s face. “Hey!” Longshanks protested, fending off the stream with one hand.

“Thought that might get your attention. Longshanks, what is eating you?” Bugdance demanded, resting both elbows on the rim of the bathing pool behind him and fixing his friend with a quizzical look.

Longshanks shifted uncomfortably under the jungle elf’s scrutiny. “I dunno,” he mumbled. “Just worried about Halfwise, I guess.”

“About Halfwise!” Bugdance exclaimed incredulously. “Fish in a _tree_ , Longshanks, they’ve only taken him off to get dressed! What’s there to worry about? Rafel’s stones, if there’s one place in the world where Halfwise can’t possibly get into trouble, it’s here.”

“Yeah, nobody’s going to let him get hurt,” Heartseeker added. “They’re crazy about him. If Lord Tyaar isn’t with him, Mikail is.”

“I know.” Longshanks’ reply was barely audible. The other two exchanged a glance, a silent _Ohhhh!_ passing between them.

After a moment Bugdance said in a gentler tone, “Look, Longshanks, we all knew it was going to happen someday. It couldn’t be just us four forever and ever. We’ll always be friends, sure, but you said it yourself—that wasn’t what any of us were looking for.”

“Yes, that day I met the three of you,” Heartseeker remembered. “You said that what we were really looking for was a home and a family of our own. Well, I guess Halfwise has found that.” There was a wistful note in his voice. “We should be happy for him.”

“I know,” Longshanks said again, even lower than before.

“Then get happy!” Bugdance urged, jumping up. “We’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, remember? Big party and everything!” He shook his wet hair, spattering the other two. “And if we don’t hurry up and get dressed,” he admonished, pointing a long brown finger at Longshanks, “we’re gonna be late!” He sprang from the pool, caught up a drying cloth from a low bench nearby, and began toweling his hair vigorously as he trotted off toward the dressing rooms.

“He’s right, you know,” said Heartseeker—about what, he did not say. He climbed out of the pool too and began to dry himself. Longshanks did not reply. At length Heartseeker shrugged and walked off in the direction Bugdance had gone.

Longshanks sat for awhile longer. Then he said “I know” once more, not even voicing the words, and abruptly unfolded himself from the bathing pool. He was thorough in scrubbing the moisture from his face, but his expression was morose as he followed his two friends.

 

It was _not_ only the business with Halfwise that was bothering him, Longshanks told himself almost fiercely as he dressed. This whole place bothered him. He had never liked caves, no matter how big and fancy they were. He needed the open sky above him. How did these Tower Mountain elves stand it, living inside solid rock all the time? They must get out once in a while. Maybe he would ask somebody about it tomorrow. A good long run, perhaps a hunt, might be all he needed to brighten his mood.

For now, though, there was this feast to get through—a banquet, the Tower elves called it—to celebrate their arrival. Or Halfwise’s arrival, anyway, the plains elf thought sourly. Though the rest of them had been treated courteously enough in the past two days, it had been clear all along that Halfwise was the center of attention. Which was only natural, he admitted. It must seem like a miracle, a son of Lord Tyaar’s long-lost brother turning up out of the blue after all this time. An almost inconceivably long time. Mikail had given them the figure: an eight-of-eight-of-eights nearly six times over since the founding of Tower Mountain.

Over half the Tower elves had been alive back then, too, including Mikail himself. Longshanks could not imagine living that long. The oldest elf he had ever known, an elder of his own tribe, had seen perhaps an eight-of-eight-of-eights. Out on the plains, the world caught up with you sooner or later. Sooner or later your luck ran out, as it had for his entire tribe nearly three hands of turns ago when a prairie fire had left him a solitary drifter. Until Bugdance found him … and then the two of them found Piet…

With a mental shake he broke himself out of that train of thought and concentrated on the reflection before him. A mirror, the Tower elves called this silvered sheet of metal that gave back an image clearer and sharper than the calmest pool. It was almost spooky the way the reflection’s brown eyes looked back at him. There were tiny lines around those eyes, he realized, inscribed there by sun and wind. His face was tanned, the skin coarsened by the world’s touch.

_Prairie fires,_ he thought, _Mikail doesn’t_ look _that old._ Except for his height and slenderness, traits that recalled the ancestral High Ones of legend, the blond elf could be no older than Heartseeker … not much older than Halfwise. Then again, how old was Halfwise? Longshanks had never been sure. Halfwise himself was vague about the passage of time. Their best guess was that he had seen perhaps five or six hands of turns when he was sealed in Preserver silk. Who knew how many turns of the seasons had passed after that, while Piet slept outside of time and his father’s deserted city fell to ruin about him? However many it had been, they had not touched him. Perhaps that was the way of it with these Tower elves. Sealed away from the world outside, they could escape its ravages.

“Soft, that’s what they are,” Longshanks muttered. He peered into the mirror again, smoothing the wave of dark hair that fell across his forehead and straightening his close-fitting green cap. His mouth twisted into a wry grin. The wardrobe master had made a fuss about that cap, but Longshanks had refused to forgo it. He didn’t mind dressing up a little for a festival, but the cap was practically part of him; he didn’t care how it looked.

The rest of the outfit was pretty sharp, he had to admit. The four wanderers had no festival clothes of their own, of course, so Mikail had handed them over to the wardrobe master, an elf named Peysol, who had given them the run of his storerooms. Longshanks still had not figured out what anybody would want with all those different kinds of clothes; there seemed to be an infinite variety of them. Peysol, a cheerful blond elf who was also, he said, a member of Mikail’s troupe (whatever that meant), had given the four a relatively free hand in choosing what they would wear, though he was quick with advice when asked. With his help, Longshanks had picked out a pair of straight trousers and a short square-cut jacket of a rich, dark blue, trimmed with narrow bands of white and silver. They suited his rangy form well, though the jacket had to be let out a bit across the shoulders. Under the jacket was a soft white shirt. Peysol had suggested ruffles, but Longshanks had vetoed the idea. Festival was festival, but that did not mean he intended to plume himself like a strutter-cock.

Nevertheless he was pleased with what his reflection showed. Time to go and meet the others. With a last tug at his cap, he pushed aside the woven curtain that screened off the small dressing alcove and stepped into the hall outside.

Bugdance was already waiting there. Longshanks could not repress a grin at the sight of his friend. The jungle elf turned around and grinned back at him, holding out his arms to display a bright poncho embroidered with a multi-hued pattern of swirls and curlicues that almost seemed to be in motion. Three or four wildly various strings of beads hung around his neck.

“What d’you think?” he asked Longshanks. “D’you like it?” There was a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes.

Longshanks spread his hands. “What can I say? It’s you.” Bugdance snickered.

“Where’s Nosey?” the plains elf asked. 

Bugdance made a face. “Well, Peysol was nice about it, but he made it pretty clear that bondbeasts and banquets don’t mix. So I left him in the room. He should be all right in there.”

Longshanks snorted. “What makes you think he’ll stay put?”

Bugdance’s grimace deepened. “I tied him to a bedpost.” At Longshanks’ scandalized look, he added defensively, “I gave him plenty of rope. He’ll be able to wander around some.”

Longshanks looked dubious. “As long as he doesn’t start getting into things. Was the, uh, chamber pot empty?” He, Bugdance and Heartseeker had not been able to figure out what the heavy ceramic pot in their sleeping chamber was for until Halfwise told them. The plains elf still found the idea revolting—in his view, full-grown, healthy elves were not supposed to smell up their sleeping quarters—but he had to admit that in some situations the thing might be useful. In this place you couldn’t just step outside—or at least it would be a long walk.

“Yeah, I made sure of that. Put our packs out of his reach, too.” Bugdance grinned, then trotted over to one of the other curtained doorways and called, “Heartseeker, hurry up or they’ll start without us!”

“Coming,” was the muffled reply from within. A moment later the small elf emerged through the curtains, smoothing his hair. Longshanks had earlier overheard Peysol offering to trim it. Heartseeker had evidently taken him up on the offer. The sleek dark cap had been shortened from jaw-length to just below his ears. He wore a close-fitting vest of the shimmering fabric the Tower elves called silk, colored a darkly glowing red and embroidered with gold. A shirt of a similar color, with wide, full sleeves, was open at the neck to reveal a fine gold chain. His breeches were skin-tight, tucked into knee-high boots of shiny black. Heartseeker paused with his hands on his hips and flashed a grin at his two friends. “What do you think? Think the girls will like it?”

“You’ll knock ’em dead,” Bugdance assured him solemnly. “’Long as they remember to look down, that is…” He leapt nimbly out of the way as Heartseeker aimed a swat at him. “Never mind, short stuff,” he added consolingly, patting the small elf on the shoulder. “We’ve all got the same problem here, even Longshanks. I never knew girls came that tall,” he complained.

“Well, don’t you worry, Bugdance,” Longshanks drawled, picking up one corner of the dizzying poncho. “No way they’re going to miss this.”

“That’s the idea. So when do we make our entrance?” The jungle elf struck a pose with legs spread and arms straight out to the sides, then tried another one with feet together and one arm flung out in front, then a third poised on one foot with one arm raised and the other out to the side, all the time wiggling his eyebrows and grinning manically.

“Bugdance, will you stop that?” Heartseeker said, trying unsuccessfully to repress his chuckles. “They’re going to think we’ve been out in the sun too long. Anyway, we’ve got to wait for Halfwise. Mikail said they’d meet us here. I wonder what they gave him to wear.”

Halfwise had been completely bewildered by the array of clothing presented to the four and utterly incapable of making a choice, but Peysol had assured the young elf he already had a costume in mind for him. “The garbing of Himself’s nephew is not something I would leave to chance.” Halfwise’s friends were curious about what the wardrobe master had come up with.

They did not have long to wait. Soft footsteps and voices at the end of the corridor heralded their friend’s arrival. Mikail was with him, Peysol a step or two behind. For a few moments the three wanderers just stared. The garb itself was not overly elaborate: a short, full tunic belted at the waist with a gold chain, a closer-fitting undertunic of fine white fabric, deep-necked to display the gleaming torc, tights, low boots. But the tunic was heavy silk, of a green so dark it was almost black. Embroidered on it in brilliant gold and red were flowers like splashes of sunlight surrounded by leaves the fresh green of Budding-time, with vines curling everywhere. The sleeves were wide and trailing, their edges fancifully dagged, lined with flame-colored silk. This was Halfwise—simple, unassuming Halfwise? For the first time since they had known him, he looked like a lord’s son. Yet his face was the same one they knew so well, with his straight, sandy hair falling nearly into his eyes, the wide-set brown eyes with their perpetual look of childlike wonder. The contrast was almost comical, but Longshanks, at least, did not feel like laughing. Was Peysol trying to make a fool out of his friend?

Then Halfwise looked up and saw the three of them waiting for him. His face lit with a delighted smile—and suddenly, it was right. Yes, this was Halfwise, this joyous riot of color that recalled the renewal of life after the deathlike sleep of White-time. Longshanks found an answering smile curving his lips, though all he said was, “Well now! Don’t you look fine! Are you ready for the big party?”

Halfwise nodded. “Oh, yes! Mikail’s been telling me he’s going to dance after the banquet."

“There’s going to be dancing? I didn’t know that.” Longshanks wondered what kind of dances these Tower folk did and if they were difficult to learn.

“Dancing of a special kind,” said Mikail. “A dance that tells a story. In Piet’s honor, my company and I will perform ‘The Sundering Flood’ for the first time in many eights-of-eights.”

“Something of a challenge,” Peysol put in, then added when Mikail glanced at him, “But then, you know how much we enjoy a challenge.” Mikail laughed.

Lord Tyaar’s elder nephew wore pale green and gold tonight, Longshanks noticed, instead of his usual blue and silver. To match his brother’s garb more closely, perhaps? His brown-blond hair was neat for once. At his throat he wore a golden torc. “You’ve got one too!” Longshanks found himself exclaiming before he could stop himself.

Mikail glanced at him. “What? Oh, this.” He touched the torc lightly. “Yes. I rarely wear it nowadays, but I’ve always kept it. Lord Tyaar has a similar one, though he only wears it on certain ceremonial occasions. My—” He paused and smiled at Halfwise before amending, “— _our_ father made them long ago, before… But you will see that tale tonight. For now, we have a banquet to get to. Come.” Taking Halfwise’s arm, he led the way, while the others followed behind him.

The four wanderers had been shown around Tower Mountain a bit in the past two days, but this was the first time they had seen the Feast Hall. In shape it was a perfect oval. The polished stone floor was raised at each end. The near end, where they entered, was a dais where the high table stood, shaped like a crescent moon with Lord Tyaar’s high seat at the center. Three more long, narrow tables were set up in the lower, central portion of the hall. The far end, also raised, was empty.

A lofty gallery ran around the entire perimeter of the room, supported by eights upon eights of slender pillars. Another row of pillars rose from the gallery to the roof. Each pillar bore a lamp; three more elaborate many-flamed lamps hung suspended from the arched ceiling high above. Their combined light made the spacious hall almost as bright as day. The ceiling itself was painted to resemble a blue sky adorned with clouds and soaring birds. On the walls behind both the lower and the upper rows of pillars could be glimpsed many-hued tapestries.

Longshanks saw Heartseeker looking about him in delight as they entered the hall behind Halfwise and Mikail. The plains elf would not have minded a chance to look around either, but there was no time for that now. The long tables were full. As the five of them entered—Peysol had disappeared somewhere along the way—Lord Tyaar rose from his seat and stepped forward to greet them. He led Halfwise to a place at his side. Mikail was seated next to his brother. The rest of them were farther down the table, in between others of the Tower elves. Longshanks found himself sitting beside Mikail, with Doleera on his left. Heartseeker was next, between the ruddy-haired elf woman and another maiden whose raven tresses were adorned with pairs of blue beads. She too was clad in the closefitting garb of a hawkrider. Bugdance was beyond her.

_Girls,_ Longshanks thought wryly. _That ought to make ’em happy._ He watched Heartseeker favor the maiden on each side with a beaming smile before sitting down.

He glanced over at the other side of the table. Beliel was at Tyaar’s right, predictably enough. The rockshaper was Lord Tyaar’s second-in-command, they had learned. Beyond him were several male elves in hawkrider’s garb and one richly gowned female, whose chestnut-brown hair was elaborately woven and braided. Eylar, sitting next to her at the far end, was the only one Longshanks recognized. On Beliel’s other side sat a strikingly handsome elf with red-gold hair worn short and loose. Next to him— The plains elf felt a jolt of surprise. Now, that did not look like a Tower elf, despite his dress. He was considerably shorter than the elves to either side of him, a little less than Bugdance’s height, broader in the shoulder, and his ears were even longer than Longshanks’ own, his silver-gray eyes more slanted. His mane of chestnut hair and light eyes gave him the air of a fox among pheasants.

Lord Tyaar was making introductions. “You have already met Beliel, though you were not formally introduced at the time. Twillor, flight leader of the Declared.” The flame-haired elf rose and nodded to them. “And his protégé, Airwolf.” The chestnut-haired elf also rose. “As you can no doubt guess,” Tyaar went on, “Airwolf is also originally from the Outside. Twillor and the Declared have been training him in the use of his gliding Talent.”

Twillor leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “It is a great pleasure to meet others of our kin from the Outside.” His gray eyes were intense. “I shall desire your further acquaintance, if it is agreeable to you.”

“Sure,” Longshanks responded, though he was not at all certain what Twillor meant. The formality of Tower speech sometimes confused him.

“Eylar, cadet-master of the Declared,” Tyaar continued, “his lifemate, Vayree; their son, Nalkor.” Nalkor was a dark-haired, serious-looking elf whose large, liquid brown eyes were his most striking feature. He and his parents nodded to the four wanderers, Eylar stiffly, Vayree with a slight smile. “And, not to neglect the other ladies, Doleera and Kiriel, also of the Declared. And now, with the formalities out of the way,” Lord Tyaar concluded, “the feast can begin.”

The lord of Tower Mountain seated himself once more in his high-backed chair. As if this was a signal, human servants came hurrying out from between the pillars, bearing jugs and platters. Heartseeker jumped when a tall human appeared at his elbow, but managed to smile as the man filled his goblet.

That was another thing it was going to be hard to get used to, Longshanks thought, having humans around all the time. And they were so cursed obsequious; he hadn’t yet been able to get one to look him straight in the eye. He had never been served or worshipped before and didn’t particularly want to start now. But these Tower elves didn’t seem to mind it. Most of them took no more notice of the humans than they did of the statuary. It would be a long time before he and his friends got to that point. Heartseeker had practically had clutch-heart when a human had come traipsing into the bath chamber carrying what looked like a club. As it turned out, it was only a brush and the human just wanted to scrub the elves’ backs for them. Longshanks had politely but firmly sent the human away, saying they could scrub their own backs, thank you, or each other’s if necessary.

The plains elf glanced over at Heartseeker. The small elf seemed at ease now, dividing his attention as impartially as he could between the maidens on either side of him. Bugdance was devoting his attention to the food and drink; Longshanks knew from previous experience that the wiry jungle elf could put away astonishing amounts of food when the opportunity presented itself. He had seen Bugdance go at it with both hands and feet on occasion. At the moment, fortunately, he was contenting himself with hands, helping himself to whatever lay within reach.

Nalkor’s voice from across the table diverted Longshanks’ attention. “I haven’t seen you wear your torc in a long time, Mikail.”

The blond elf smiled. “It is in my brother’s honor I wear it tonight,” he replied, “and in honor of our father, who made both his and mine.”

“Are they identical, then?” the dark-haired hawkrider asked interestedly.

“I doubt it,” Lord Tyaar commented. “Meiron would never be content merely to repeat himself. But it should be an easy matter to compare the two.”

Mikail nodded, reached up and with a twist of his hands and a toss of his head removed the torc from his neck. He laid it on the table in front of him, then turned to Halfwise. “Piet, do you want to take yours off for a moment?”

Halfwise shook his head and swallowed before answering, “I can’t.”

“Please—just for a little while,” Mikail coaxed. “We want to see if they are the same.”

“I can’t,” Halfwise repeated. “It doesn’t come off.”

“What?” The blond elf looked at his brother in surprise.

“Father didn’t want me to lose it,” Halfwise explained. “He always said I’d leave my head behind someday if it weren’t attached to my neck, so when he gave me this he just shaped it on.”

Mikail half rose from his seat, peering around at the back of Halfwise’s neck, then touched the torc with curious fingers. “High Ones, you’re right!”

“Well, that answers _that_ question,” Nalkor laughed. “They’re not identical. Yours comes off.”

“No, but really…” Mikail looked at his brother’s torc more closely, then down at his own. “They are not the same,” he said finally, taking his own in his hands. “Similar, but not identical. They are both made in the shape of the feathered serpent of our kin, Ketsal’s line, but mine has a strand of shells winding around it, and these lines that represent the wind.” He traced them with a finger. “That was for my mother, Natalya,” he went on in a lower voice, “for she loved the sea and the winds. Now Piet’s,” he went on, “is twined with leafy vines and flowers. That must be in honor of his mother. Is it not, Piet?” Halfwise nodded. “Could you tell us a little about her?” Mikail asked gently. “I would like to know something of the lady who brought my father joy again, and I do not even know her name.”

“Periel—it was Periel,” said Halfwise.

“Periel,” Lord Tyaar repeated. “I do not recall the name. Perhaps she was born after the Sundering?”

“Yes, Mother was born in the Hidden Valley,” answered Halfwise.

“Who were her parents?” Tyaar asked.

Halfwise’s brow puckered. “I don’t remember their names. I’m not very good at that,” he apologized. “I just called them Grandfather and Grandmother.”

“Never mind,” said Tyaar. “What of your mother’s Recognition to Meiron? I should very much like to hear how that came about. Though of course you would not remember it,” he added with a smile.

“Oh, but Mother and Father told me about it,” Halfwise said eagerly. “It happened during the Festival of Flowers. That’s in Budding-time when the trees bloom and there are flowers everywhere. Mother lived in the hometree grove then, but that day she came into the city to get trailing-star for the dancers’ wreaths, because it only grew in the gardens. She was running down some stairs and she tripped, and somebody caught her to keep her from falling, and she looked up and it was Father. And that was when they Recognized. Then two turns later I was born. That was during the Festival of Flowers too.”

“Yes, it would be. As simply and as suddenly as that,” Lord Tyaar mused. “A second Recognition… Was your mother a healer, by any chance?”

Halfwise shook his head. “No. She used to help the healers, though, because her father was a treeshaper and she knew a lot about plants. Our house in the city had a big garden, and she used to take me out there and tell me about all the plants and where they grew and what they were good for. Sometimes we went into the woods to look for plants, too. That was fun.”

“And did you have other children to play with?”

“Other children?” Halfwise looked puzzled. “No. There weren’t any other children. I was the only one.”

Lord Tyaar sighed, and it seemed to Longshanks that a voiceless echo of the sound ran around the table. The brief silence that followed was broken by Twillor’s sharp inquiry, “How long had it been since there was a child born in the Hidden Valley?”

Halfwise turned a worried look on the flame-haired hawkrider. “I don’t know.”

“Had it been a long time?”

“I don’t know,” Halfwise repeated. “I think so.”

Twillor sat back in his chair with a faintly triumphant expression. “You see, my lord? Isolation is _not_ the answer. When we seal ourselves off from the world outside, we begin to wither, to lose our ability to renew ourselves.”

“I think you misinterpret, Twillor,” Lord Tyaar responded, “or at least reach your conclusions on very scanty evidence. I myself prefer to take Piet’s presence here as a sign that we have not lost that ability—as Meiron evidently did.” He ran a finger over the twining vine-patterns of Halfwise’s torc, then rested his hand on the young elf’s shoulder. “It has merely … slowed.”

“How slow can the pulse of life become before it ceases altogether?” Twillor demanded. His keen gray eyes swept around the table. “I might point out that the Outsiders do not seem to have—slowed, as you put it.” He fixed his gaze on Longshanks. “I would judge you the eldest of you three. Am I right?”

“I expect so,” the plains elf replied.

“How many turns have you seen?”

“Mm. A couple of eights-of-eights. Getting on for three, I reckon.”

Twillor turned a challenging gaze on Tyaar. “How long has it been since anyone in Tower Mountain was that age, let alone a child? And he is the eldest.”

“Come now, Twillor,” Beliel’s lazy, mocking voice interrupted, “are you truly suggesting we emulate—Outsiders?” He lounged back in his chair, his eyebrows lifted in disdain as he glanced toward the three wanderers. “If we may judge from a small sample—” He smiled sardonically. “—they all seem to me to be homeless drifters. My lord’s nephew excepted, of course,” he amended with a nod in Halfwise’s direction.

Mikail eyed the dark-haired rockshaper with dislike, though the tone of his reply was elaborately courteous. “I would remind you, Beliel, that we have these so-called ‘drifters’ to thank for bringing Piet here, and for being his protectors and friends along the way. For that we owe them a debt of gratitude that can never be fully repaid.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Tyaar, inclining his head toward the three. “You have all our thanks, and our invitation to cease your wandering and make your home here with us, as Airwolf has done. But let us turn our converse to less solemn matters, shall we? This was intended to be a festive occasion.” He raised a hand; a human servant hurried up and proceeded to refill the wine goblets.

But Longshanks was not diverted by this ploy. Touching Mikail’s arm, he inquired in a low voice, “Let me get this straight. You Tower folk don’t have children anymore?”

Mikail looked down at his hands, which were fiddling with his torc. “Not since—not for a very long time,” he answered quietly. “It is a cause of concern, as you have seen. But you must excuse me.” He rose abruptly and spoke to the table at large. “I must go to prepare for this evening’s performance. My lord.” He nodded to Tyaar. “My brother.” He touched Halfwise’s shoulder and murmured something in his ear that caused Halfwise to smile up at him. Then he was gone, hurrying out of one of the side entrances of the hall. Longshanks was left to mull over yet another revelation.

Elf children were always few and precious. In his old tribe, divided for most of the year into small clans of perhaps six or eight elves each, Longshanks had often passed the entire time between the yearly Gathering festivals without seeing a child, after his young nephew had grown up. Yet he had always known they were there; one of the first things you caught up on at Gathering was who had Recognized whom, what children had been born, how they were getting on. He had always expected that one day he himself would Recognize and have children. It was part of the natural order of things. Even in the turns after the destruction of his tribe, after his rescue by Bugdance, during all his subsequent wanderings with him and Halfwise and Heartseeker, Longshanks had clung to the belief that someday, somewhere, this would happen.

He glanced over at Heartseeker. The small elf was relating the tale of his various ill-starred lovematings to Kiriel and Doleera, who seemed to be listening with interest and no little amusement. Bugdance looked on, preparing, from the gleam in his eye, to jump in at any moment with a witty comment and perhaps divert one of the females’ attention. For his part, though, Longshanks found these ethereal Tower maidens very pleasant to look at, but he could barely imagine joining with one, let alone lifemating.

Lord Tyaar had invited them to stay and make Tower Mountain their home. All of them had been taking it for granted they would. But if they did, Longshanks realized, he might have to give up his private dream of happiness. No mate, no family … not that his friends weren’t almost like a family to him, as close as his clan had been.

He looked over at Halfwise. The young elf was talking earnestly to Lord Tyaar. One of his uncle’s long hands lay over his where it rested on the table. Piet had a new family now, an uncle and a brother. He no longer needed Longshanks and Bugdance and Heartseeker to take care of him. He had found a home. As for the other two, they seemed happy. They had what they wanted—girls—though Longshanks would have thought that Heartseeker, at least, was looking for something more lasting than an endless series of lovematings. Then again, he supposed even a lovemating could last for eights-of-eights here. Tower elves had plenty of time.

_Face it, Myek. The only real misfit here is you._

So what did that mean? That he should strike out on his own? His spirit shrank from the thought. A near turn of solitude had been enough, even without being held captive by humans. Well, maybe Bugdance and Heartseeker would get tired of this place eventually and the three of them could leave together. That wouldn’t be so bad. And maybe someday they would find another tribe of elves, and—

_No. I can’t. I can’t leave Piet._ The three of them were Halfwise’s friends. He would miss them, be unhappy if they left. _He’d get over it,_ Longshanks told himself firmly.

_But I wouldn’t._

The realization chilled him. He shoved it back down into the depths of his spirit. _Give it time,_ he told himself. High Ones knew there was plenty of that here. No harm in sticking around for awhile. He would not leave without Bugdance and Heartseeker anyway. Besides, he would want to make sure Halfwise was truly happy, that Tower life agreed with him. He owed his friend that much.

While Longshanks had been thinking things over, the remains of the banquet had been cleared away. All the human servants had vanished from the hall. The low murmur of conversation died down.

A powerful sending came from somewhere: **Flame, lights!** All the lamps in the hall blinked out. In the darkness Longshanks heard a gasp from Halfwise, then the young elf’s anxious inquiry, “Uncle, what’s happening?”

Tyaar chuckled softly. “Do not be alarmed, nephew. It is the beginning of Mikail’s performance. Be still and watch.”

Several heartbeats passed. The lights at the far end of the hall began to come up, dimly at first, then brighter and brighter. The raised platform at that end was no longer empty. A double row of elves stood there, poised, motionless. There were perhaps two-eights of them. As the light grew stronger, music began to play from the gallery above. All at once the stage came alive with movement.

It took Longshanks awhile to puzzle out what was going on. He knew from what Mikail had said earlier that this was supposed to be a “dance that told a story,” but he found the many running, leaping, twirling figures bewildering. The first thing to become clear was that there were two distinct groups of dancers. The larger group was garbed variously and relatively normally (for Tower elves). The smaller group all wore closefitting bodysuits of varied shades of blue and green. Long strips of silk fluttered from their arms, rippling and billowing as they danced in unison. The motion reminded the plains elf of the waving of grasses tossed by the wind, or of water flowing. Yes, that was it—water. Abruptly he remembered something Heartseeker had once shown him in sending: an endless expanse of water stretching to the horizon, its nearer edges surging across the land and then receding. Heartseeker’s people called it the Vastdeep; it lay perhaps a moon’s journey to sun-up of their land. Heartseeker himself had seen it once or twice. It was that ceaseless, restless motion the blue-clad dancers imitated, surging and receding across the stage.

Longshanks turned his attention to the other dancers. At first an undifferentiated mass, as he watched they began to resolve into individuals. It took him awhile to spot Mikail. His first guess turned out to be someone else, though the other dancer’s movements were uncannily like Mikail’s.

A murmur from Nalkor reached his ears as the brown-haired hawkrider commented to Vayree, “Mikail’s dancing Meiron tonight. He hasn’t done that in awhile.” The remark brought things into focus for Longshanks. The dancers had roles; they portrayed people in the story, as the blue-clad ones represented the sea. Two blond figures, Mikail and Peysol, were most in view, standing out from the rest and shaping the others’ dance with their own. _Meiron and Tyaar,_ Longshanks realized, _Piet’s father and uncle._ The two blond elves danced together, matching each other’s movements, whirled away from each other, came together again. A third dancer, female this time, joined them, took Mikail/Meiron’s hands and revolved with him. The other dancers receded as the two, male and female, danced together, their every gesture expressing the communion between them. _Lifemates._ Another male dancer joined the pair, the one Longshanks had mistaken for Mikail at first—Mikail’s younger self, Longshanks realized. This, then, was the original tribe from which both the Tower Mountain elves and the Hidden Valley elves had sprung.

The longer he watched, the clearer the progress of the story became. These elves had lived by the shores of the Vastdeep. At first it had been their friend, even their playmate: blue-clad figures danced in and out, joining hands briefly with the dancers, twirling with them. Meiron’s lifemate was foremost in this, her body expressing delight as she romped with the waves.

But after a time the guiding music grew stronger, wilder. The blue-clad dancers leaped higher; their motions became more aggressive. They swept across the stage, driving the other dancers before them. The plains elf had seen enough flash floods to guess what was happening. The waters had risen, driving the elves from their home. They fled from a sea that had turned against them.

The water-dancers passed from the stage. The homeless elf tribe wandered on, the length of their journey evident in the weary set of their bodies. Longshanks knew that weariness all too well from his and his friends’ own wanderings. The two brothers led and their tribe followed, to what end they did not know. At last they paused, for the blue-clad dancers had reappeared in a rippling line across the stage. Their motion was different now, a purposed flow rather than the in-and-out pulsation of the sea. A river, lying across the path of the journey.

Possibilities were discussed and a decision made without a word being spoken, all conveyed through the medium of movement and music. Treeshapers brought boughs from the forest and wove them into a raft. The elves began to board it, though not all, for it was not large enough. Some remained behind as the craft began to move. The figure of Meiron stood out from those aboard.

Suddenly there was a surge of blue, a wave of dancers sweeping down the river. They caught up the raft and tossed it into the air. They could not really be throwing it that lightly, Longshanks realized with a detached part of his mind; some of the dancers on the raft must be gliders, holding it up. But the image was overwhelming: the raft caught up in a sudden flood, its passengers clinging to it for dear life, being whirled away from their companions. The water-dancers leapt about it with a fierce glee.

From among the huddled forms rose the figure of Meiron, reaching out imploringly toward those on shore who were being rapidly left behind. A response came from the stricken watchers: the lithe form of his lifemate, running, leaping into the raging water. Blue and white hands grasped her and pulled her down as she struggled vainly to reach him. The young Mikail plunged forward as if to follow her, but was grasped and held back by Tyaar. The two of them stood frozen with horror as she disappeared beneath the dancers’ billowing silks. Three golden heads bowed: Meiron’s, as he sank back down onto the raft and was borne from the stage; Tyaar’s, as the river took his brother forever from his view; and Mikail’s, as his slim form sagged in his uncle’s grasp, its every line crying out his grief at the loss of both his parents.

The lights dimmed. The raft was gone; the river had returned to its normal flow. The remaining dancers stood still for several breaths. Then slowly they awoke to motion, a weary, sorrowful step, but one that retained a purpose despite their grief. Half of themselves had been cruelly torn away, but they would go on. They passed from the stage, the two blond figures in the center, the taller laying a comforting, protective arm across the shoulders of the other. The lights dimmed further and went out.

For a time there was silence and darkness. Then the lamps at the far end of the room flared to life to reveal all the dancers standing onstage in a double line as before. Applause burst from the watching elves along with a wave of sending, a mental shout of approbation. The dancers bowed in acknowledgment. Heartseeker’s mind-star touched Longshanks’, sparkling with enthusiasm. **What did you think of that, eh, Longshanks? Fantastic! I’ve never seen anything like it!**

**It was something, all right,** the plains elf replied. He could sense from Heartseeker’s mind-touch that the forest elf had gotten more out of the performance than the bare story, had been able to appreciate the artistry of the dance as dance far more than he had. He could not tell what Bugdance thought of it; the curly-haired elf was talking to Kiriel in an undertone.

As the clapping died away, the rest of the dancers left the stage. Only Mikail remained standing alone. He had put by the role of his father in ways more subtle than the mere shedding of a costume, and was himself once more. He waited until the applause had ceased and all eyes were on him. He stretched out his hand toward the high table where his brother sat. Then he began to dance alone.

This was something different from what had gone before, Longshanks realized as he watched. This was not a dance that told a story, unless the story was the tale of one elf’s soul. This was the pure expression of feeling translated into visible motion. Mikail’s dance was by turns slow and graceful, blindingly quick and intricate, extravagantly spectacular with leaps so high he seemed to be flying. But always, always it yearned toward Piet, as if speaking to him alone amid the hall full of elves, a communion more intimate than locksending. Longshanks felt like an eavesdropper. He glanced over at Heartseeker, who was watching raptly, his dark brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. Bugdance was nodding in apparent admiration.

The plains elf turned his head and looked at Halfwise. The young elf sat motionless, staring at the dancing figure of his brother. Tears streamed from his wide brown eyes.

The dance came to an end. Mikail stood once more at center stage. He glanced toward the high table. Then he sprang lightly down and hurried across the hall to the dais where Halfwise sat. “My brother!” he exclaimed softly, taking Halfwise’s hands. “Have I distressed you? The tale of our people’s separation is a sorrowful one, I know, but it has led to joy in the end now that you are here.”

Halfwise looked up at him, shaking his head. “You’re so sad,” he whispered. “Why are you so sad?”

“No, my brother!” There was a note of desperation in Mikail’s denial. “I am happy, happy that you have come. I dance for you, Piet. Please … don’t cry.” He reached across the table to embrace his brother. Halfwise buried his face in the dancer’s shoulder. “Don’t cry,” Mikail murmured. “I won’t be sad anymore with you here.” But something in his voice belied his words. Meeting the dancer’s eyes over his brother’s shoulder, Longshanks suddenly could believe this elf was over three thousand turns old. He turned quickly away, embarrassed, pretending to look around the hall. But in the slender pillars rising from floor to gallery and from gallery to ceiling, all at once he could see nothing more than the bars of a cage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four newcomers begin to explore the Tower, and become acquainted with its inhabitants.

“Nosey! Oh, No-o-osey!” Bugdance trotted up a long, curving hallway lit by clumps of glowing moss and the occasional lamp, calling softly at intervals. “Nosey! Come on out, old wrigglenose. Look, I promise not to tie you up again, okay? Come on! Don’t you want to see what I got you at the banquet?”

The four friends had returned from the feast the previous evening to discover Nosey’s tether gnawed through and the coati nowhere to be found. Bugdance had cursed roundly and inventively, but had been too tired to start looking for his bondbeast then. Instead he had begun the search this morning. He was not really worried about Nosey. The coati could usually take care of himself. The chief danger, as Longshanks had pointed out, was that he would poke his nose into someplace it wasn’t wanted and cause an uproar. And that, Bugdance thought, would be a poor return for the Tower elves’ hospitality. Though there were a few of them he wouldn’t mind giving a bit of aggravation—that supercilious rockshaper, Beliel, for one. The jungle elf grinned at the thought.

In any case, looking for Nosey gave him an excuse to explore Tower Mountain. It was a huge place, and Bugdance was sure the tour they had been given earlier had passed up all the really interesting parts. He had asked the way to the kitchens first, since the coati had a knack for nosing out where food was to be found. Kesik, the long-faced, easygoing elf who was Master of the Stores, and most of the other kitchen workers had been helpful, though Bugdance’s attempt to flirt with that cute redhead had fallen absolutely flat. But Nosey was not there, so he had made his way back to the sleep chamber and started afresh. By now he was pretty thoroughly lost. Not that it mattered. Sooner or later he would find somebody and ask—

A flicker of movement caught his eye from beyond the half-open curtain across an archway. Bugdance paused and listened, but there was no sound from the room beyond. Curious, he drew the curtain carefully aside, noting as he did so its embroidered pattern of birds intermingled with slender elfin shapes, and poked his curly head inside.

“Freebird’s nest!”

It was not only the size of the room that prompted the jungle elf’s startled exclamation, though it was spacious, easily four jumps across and at least twice as high. It was circular, with tall mirrors running all the way around. The movement he had seen was doubtless his own reflection. In front of the mirrors a polished wooden bar was mounted a little above waist height. But what caught Bugdance’s attention was the forest of bars that began above the level of the mirrors, about two elves from the floor. They were stone, shaped directly from the walls of the chamber. Some stretched all the way across the room at a variety of angles, some projected only partway out. Some were single, some branched; some were straight, others shaped into graceful curves. But they all looked just about the perfect thickness to be grasped comfortably by an elfin hand.

The temptation was irresistible. Bugdance gleefully kicked off his sandals, discarded his bead necklaces, and pulled his shirt over his head, draping it over the wooden rail. Then with a whoop he sprang straight up and caught the lowest of the stone bars. Perfect! He swung up to the top of the bar and perched there for a moment, looking around. Oh, clever … no bar near enough simply to grab. You had to jump for it. What a great place for some exercise! He plotted a path with his eyes, made another leap, caught hold of an angled bar, swung clear around it, let go, caught another, swung, flew through the air feet first, bounced off one bar and caught the next one down with his knees, hung for a moment, dropped, caught a bar, swung up to the next, up, up, up, around, over, under, both hands, one hand, knees, ankles, climbing, leaping, flying…

“Wheeooo!” He hadn’t had this much fun in moons. What a place! These Tower elves might be a little weird, but they sure knew how to—

A startled gasp came from below, breaking his train of thought. He missed a hold, fell several feet, and caught another bar with one foot. Dangling upside-down a hand of elf-heights from the floor, he looked down. An elfin female in a dark red bodysuit had entered the room and was staring up at him with wide brown eyes. Her long chestnut-brown hair was bound into a tail at the crown of her head. Recovering his wits with his usual quickness, Bugdance grinned and waved at her. “Hi, beautiful! Come here often?”

“Who are you? What are you doing in my practice room?” Her voice was light, sweet, a little breathless with surprise and perhaps indignation.

Bugdance flung out his arms in a gesture of supplication. “Ah, fair maiden, don’t be angry with me! I am only a poor homeless traveler who—whoops!” His exaggerated gestures had jarred his foot loose from the bar. He heard her gasp again as he fell, grabbed another bar in passing and swung up on top of it. He took up his sentence, dramatics and all, where he had left off. “—who has wandered far from his native land, searching in vain for a kindly word, a gentle touch, that one special face…” He gazed down at her soulfully. “…and every possible chance to get off the ground!” He leapt for a higher bar, swung around it, went flying up feet first and caught the next bar in a scissors hold with his legs. He looked down at her with his arms crossed under his chin, resting on nothing, and grinned again. “Boring place, the ground.”

She giggled. “Oh, I know who you are! You’re one of the Outsiders, aren’t you? Who came with Lord Tyaar’s nephew?”

“I see our fame has preceded us. Yes,” he declaimed, “it was I, I and my faithful companion, Longshanks, who braved the terrors of the dark, dank passage through the mountains, who found the Hidden Valley, deserted for uncounted turns of the seasons, and rescued young Halfwise from endless sleep, who—”

“’Halfwise’? What a funny name! Who—oh, my lord’s nephew. But his name isn’t—”

“That’s what we call him,” Bugdance said quickly. He still felt uncomfortable with the careless speaking aloud of his friend’s true name.

“And what’s your name?” she asked.

“My name—” He let go of the bar and dropped down to the next. “—is unimportant—” He dropped again. “—but you may call me…” Again, so that he hung upside-down just above her. “…Bugdance!”

“Bug-dance?” she repeated, hovering between bewilderment and laughter.

“Yeah. Like this.” He sent her the image of a restlessly jittering cloud of insects that had given him his tribe-name.

“Oh. Oh! I see! Your name is … what you’re like?”

“Supposed to be. Now, let me see if I can guess yours. Willowgrace? Gossamer? Rosybloom?” he hazarded as he saw her blush. “Everfair? Shimmerbird? Oh, I like that one! That’s got to be it!”

She shook her head, giggling. She had a delightful giggle. “No. It’s Vallaree.”

“Vallaree. Vallaree! Va-a-a-a-al-la-ree!” he warbled. “I like it. It suits you.” He gestured up at the crisscrossing bars. “You say this place is yours?”

“Yes, it’s my practice room. The bars are for my aerial routines. They’re really for gliding through, not climbing on.”

“Gliding? You’re a glider? Are you one of those—what d’you call ’em—Declared?”

There was just the slightest edge in her voice as she replied, “No, I’m not Declared. I’m a dancer.”

“Oh!” He smacked his forehead with one hand. “Of course! I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. Last night, right? The story-dance? Uh … in blue?” Her smile told him he had made a lucky guess. “I didn’t know you right away with your hair like that,” he improvised. He cocked his head at her. “It looks better this way.”

Her smile deepened and took on a mischievous air. This time she had not been taken in by his subterfuge—maybe she hadn’t changed her hair after all—but she did not seem to be put out. “Now you’re trying to flatter me.”

“Flatter you! _Flatter_ you! Flatter _you_? Impossible,” he stated, his voice rising to high melodrama again, “for flattery implies untruth, and how could any compliment paid to such a beautiful and gracious female possibly contain the tiniest grain of untruth, except perhaps by saying too little?” He swung back and forth from the bar, propelled by the energy of his wild arm gestures. Vallaree giggled again. “Besides,” Bugdance went on, crossing his arms, “you’ve got to talk fast when you’re caught in a lady’s practice room without permission. I was lost, and I thought I saw someone in here,” he explained, spreading his hands guilelessly.

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “But I have to do my exercises now.”

“Oh. Okay. Can I watch? I’ll stay out of your way, I promise,” he added as she looked at him in surprise.

“I suppose it’s all right … if you want to,” she said uncertainly.

“If it’d throw you off—” he began.

“Oh, no! I often have someone watch me,” she replied quickly. “Usually Mikail or one of the other dancers, to make sure I’m doing it right.”

He grinned. “Tough job! Okay, I’ll just hang around in this corner.” He swung hand over hand to a spot near the back of the room, where he resumed his upside-down position with his knees hooked over the lowest bar. “Pretend I’m a tapestry or something.” His face took on a fixed, artificial grin, his hands sticking out at odd angles. “Tapestry,” he announced through his teeth, crossing his eyes. Somehow he managed to hold his ridiculous pose through Vallaree’s fit of giggles.

At length the dancer composed herself and turned away from him toward the center of the room. She soot for a moment looking up, poised on the tips of her toes. Then her knees bent slightly and she sprang upward, her arms coming up in a graceful arc. She rose and continued to rise, floating up through the crisscrossing bars as if they were not there. Near the top she paused, her slender form hanging in midair. Then she began her dance.

Bugdance’s frozen posture and expression gradually melted away as he watched her. He had always appreciated the beauty of motion, but he had never seen anything like this. Vallaree seemed born of the air itself as she wove her way between the tangled bars. As she had implied, she rarely touched them, only occasionally using one as a pivot point to bring her around sharply. Instead she let them be the outlines and guides of the pattern she was making with her body and the air, the loom for a three-dimensional tapestry of movement. She whirled, dove, undulated, wafted, never quite still but never hurried, always graceful, every motion controlled, subservient to the overall plan—a plan Bugdance began to grasp as he watched longer.

The dancer’s brown eyes widened as a nimble form flew across her field of view. Though she did not pause, she gasped and exclaimed, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” Bugdance told her cheerfully. “I’ll still stay out of your way. I’ve got it doped out. Just got twitchy, that’s all. Go on with what you were doing.”

Astonished, she did so, continuing with her patterned exercises, her body going through the motions as that other body leapt and swung among the bars like a crazed treewee. Sometimes they came close to collision, but he always managed not to be in the space she occupied, his actions seeming random, but actually creating an angular counterpoint to her melody of movement. “See, beautiful?” he called merrily. “I’ve got you all figured out.”

Something akin to anger sparked in her. She came to an abrupt halt in midair, hands on hips. “Is that so?” Without warning she dove at him, breaking the pattern. He yelped with surprise and barely managed to evade her by dropping under the bar he was perched on. She dove at him again like a striking hawk. Again he dodged, grinning.

“Stay out of my way, will you? We’ll see about that!” She arrowed up through the bars, then began a rapid series of twists and turns, this way and that, aiming sometimes at him, sometimes elsewhere, attempting always to do the unexpected, to catch him off guard. Always he seemed able to elude her, to stay just out of her reach. His dark eyes sparkled at her over his shoulder, his gleeful laughter trailing behind him.

Where was he? She had lost him, could not see him anywhere. She halted in midair, then shrieked as a hand closed around her ankle. She looked down to find him perched in an angle of the bars, grinning up at her. “Oops,” he said. “Looks like I goofed. You were supposed to catch me, right?”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

He shrugged, still holding on to her ankle. “Touch-me-touch-you? You were ‘it,’ so you were supposed to catch me. I goofed. I guess that means you get another turn. Or does it mean I have to be ‘it’ now? I don’t remember. It’s been awhile.”

She looked down into his grinning face. It was almost a goblin face, like something out of a wild human tale: the long, high-peaked ears, the mop of curly hair, the dark, slanted eyebrows, the broad, flattened nose and too-large chin—so different from the fine, regular features of most Tower elves. His skin was brown, like that of a human who spent his days toiling in sun-drenched fields. A thin film of sweat shone on his bare chest, heaving a little from the exertion of all that leaping around. Like a crazed treewee…

“I’m ‘it,’” she proclaimed, snatching her foot from his grasp and making a dive for him. As he leapt away with a pleased chuckle, she vowed she would catch him this time.

 

Cautious footsteps whispered in blackness.

“Hey! It’s dark in here.”

A low, feminine chuckle sounded in the darkness. “Is there something wrong with the dark?”

“Not really, love, but I would like to be able to see the tapestries and all that.”

Another laugh. “If you insist.” Then a powerful sending: **Flame, galleries.**

Lamps flared to life in the deserted Feast Hall, illuminating the spaces between the walls and the rows of pillars that circled the hall, both at floor level and around the upper gallery. The center of the vast room remained in shadow.

“There, is that better?” Kiriel asked with a touch of amusement.

“Much,” Heartseeker replied, smiling up at the raven-haired hawkrider maiden. He looked curiously around at the lit galleries. “How do you do that?”

“You mean the lamps? Oh, Flame does that.”

“Flame? Who’s Flame?”

“A firemaker. She sits up there,” Kiriel pointed toward a stonework box shaped into the upper gallery at the far end of the hall, “and controls all the lamps in the Feast Hall.”

Looking carefully, Heartseeker could just make out the motionless figure of a seated elf within the stone lattice of the box. “Good of her to come in just for us,” he ventured.

Kiriel looked surprised. “She’s always there. That’s her function.”

“Always? Doesn’t it get a bit boring?”

The black-haired maiden laughed. “Silly barbarian! Of course not. It’s the path she chose, like the Doors.”

“Oh.” Heartseeker swallowed. He still felt uncomfortable anytime he looked at one of the blank-eyed rockshapers in their high alcoves. But Kiriel seemed to think it perfectly natural for and elf to choose such a path and no other. He forced a smile and looked up at her again. “Shall we have a look round, then?”

Kiriel laid a hand on the small elf’s shoulder and steered him around to the right. “If we want to look at the tapestries in order, this is the first one,” she said, indicating the woven hanging with a flourish of her free hand. “You may recognize the scene.”

“Yes, from the dance last night,” Heartseeker remembered. “That’s the holt by the Vastdeep, isn’t it?”

“'Holt’? What an odd word. Yes, that’s the Old Settlement, where our people lived before the Sundering. You can see Lord Tyaar there in the middle, and his brother—what was his name?”

“Meiron. Yes, it’s easy to recognize Tyaar.” Heartseeker peered more closely at the tapestry, studying the two figures. “So that’s Halfwise’s father. Sure doesn’t look much like Halfwise. Tyaar and Meiron look a lot alike, though. No wonder Halfwise got such a turn when he saw Tyaar. I recognize Mikail, too, and that must be his mother … he looks more like her than like Meiron.” He glanced around at Kiriel. “Who made this? It’s fantastic … clear as a picture-sending.”

“It’s Vayree’s work, like most of the tapestries in the hall. She is the foremost weaver and embroiderer in Tower Mountain. That’s an early work, though, and somewhat crude, really. Her later pieces are much more subtle. I’ve always thought the colors on this one were a bit garish.”

Heartseeker thought they were cheerfully bright, though he could see that they had faded with the passage of turns. He ran his fingers lightly over the stiff embroidery. “Who’s this flame-haired beauty?” he asked, pointing to a tall, slender figure whose hair was a cascade of fire down her back.

Kiriel did not answer for a moment. Then she said, “Oh, someone. I—there are some people in these old ones who aren’t around anymore, you know.” She touched his arm and went on quickly, “You may also want to take a closer look at the pillars behind us. They’re all shaped. No two are exactly alike. Many skilled rockshapers have expended their talents on them.”

Heartseeker dutifully turned and examined the pillars, which were indeed works of art in themselves. From there they passed on to the next tapestry, which depicted the Move and the Sundering, and on around the hall. Each hanging represented a scene from Tower Mountain’s long history. Some, especially the later ones, were almost meaningless to the small elf even with Kiriel’s commentary, but they were all beautifully done. In fact, the less he understood of the story behind the images, the more he was able to appreciate the sheer artistry of those images, the skillful interplay of form and color. From time to time he would turn to admire the intricately shaped pillars, which always seemed to harmonize with the tapestries that hung behind them.

After awhile he began to single out individual styles. One artist in particular caught his fancy; there was an impish quality to his work that appealed to Heartseeker. He ventured to ask Kiriel, “Who made this one?”

“Which one? Oh, that.” She frowned slightly and pursed her lips. “That one was done by an elf called Foi, I believe.”

“I like his stuff,” Heartseeker said appreciatively. “Do you think I could meet him?”

“No,” she answered, quickly and definitely.

“Huh? Why not? Is he, um, ‘not around anymore’?”

“No. But he—keeps to himself. Here, what do you think of this one? It’s one of the ones my brother did.” Heartseeker made admiring noises, though he did not care for Beliel’s style nearly as much as that of the mysterious Foi. But he did not wish to insult Kiriel by saying so; he knew she and her brother were close.

At length they made their way around to the entrance again. Heartseeker’s eyes glowed as he looked up at Kiriel. His face was flushed, intoxicated with beauty. “It’s fantastic!” he said. “Everywhere you look… I’ve never seen so many gorgeous things in one place.”

His dark eyes were fixed on Kiriel’s face as he said it. She laughed and inquired, “Is that to be taken as a compliment?”

He blinked, then recovered with a broad smile. “If you like.”

Her green eyes half-lidded as she returned his gaze. “We have had many eights-of-eights to perfect all of our arts,” she purred. Her slender fingers brushed his shoulder.

“Yes,” he replied dreamily, “I suppose you have.”

“Would you like to see more?” she murmured.

“Er—yes. Yes, of course.”

“The upper galleries, perhaps?” Her smile was teasing.

“That sounds nice. How do we get up there?”

Her eyes danced. “Well, there are stairs. Those big spiral pillars at the far end, see?” She pointed. “But there’s a quicker way. Turn around.”

“Huh?”

“Turn around.” She took him by the shoulders and spun him so that his back was to her. Before he could express surprise or protest, her slim arms were around him, holding him tightly. He hadn’t quite gotten over the pleasurable shock of this when he felt the distinctly more surprising sensation of being lifted into the air.

“Wha—!” he gulped as the floor receded.

“Gliding is _so_ much easier,” the hawkrider laughed into his ear. Within moments she had lifted them both into the upper gallery, across from a wide curtained archway. She set her passenger on his feet, but she kept her arms around him. His heart pounded, whether because of their unexpected flight or its aftermath he was not sure. “Now,” came her teasing voice, her breath tickling his ear, “which arts were you particularly interested in?”

Heartseeker was trying to frame a suitable reply when the curtains in front of them parted. Kiriel sprang away from him as Doleera stepped through the doorway. “Oh, _there_ you are, Kiriel,” the ruddy-haired hawkrider exclaimed, sounding a little breathless. “I was just coming to warn you. Eylar and Tanyel are running an eyrie check this afternoon.”

“ _This_ afternoon? I thought it was tomorrow!” Kiriel sounded dismayed.

“No, darling, today. I have it from an impeccable source. And I noticed this morning you hadn’t gotten Keenclaw’s nest mucked out yet, so I thought I’d better let you know. Time is passing,” Doleera lilted.

Kiriel glared at her. “Yes. Well, I suppose I should go do that.” She did not move.

“I think you had better, dear, unless you want _another_ reprimand. Eylar’s awfully particular, you know.”

“I know.” Kiriel swept past Heartseeker toward the arch. “Well, aren’t you coming?” she asked Doleera.

Doleera’s green eyes went wide. “Me? I got my cleaning done yesterday.” She smiled brightly at Kiriel, who stalked past her into the corridor beyond.

It was not till that moment, it seemed, that Doleera noticed Heartseeker, where he stood looking after his erstwhile guide with a bewildered expression. “Oh, Heartseeker! I didn’t see you there for a moment, in the shadows. I’m sorry,” she said with a smile that did not look at all contrite. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Er, um—no. I mean, that is—Kiriel was just showing me the tapestries.”

“Oh, dear. And you had just gotten to the interesting part, too,” Doleera commiserated. Walking up to Heartseeker, she laid a hand on his arm. “Well, perhaps I can take up where she left off. Have you seen the upper gallery yet? Let me show you around.” Her arm slid companionably around his shoulders.

 

Longshanks crouched, gazing upward, his lean body tense. His whirling bolas were a blur near his right hand, but otherwise he stood motionless save for the flicker of his brown eyes as they searched out his target. Above him his opponents wheeled and dipped and dove, never at rest, watching hawk-eyed for some sign that would betray his intention.

He didn’t give them one. With the speed of a striking snake his body uncoiled and sent the bolas flying through the air to snare their chosen prey. The victim dodged a fraction of a heartbeat too late. The cord whipped around his legs, pulled tight by the weighted ends.

“Curse it! Caught again!”

“Too slow, Nalkor, too slow!”

“Don’t get cocky, Tanyel. It could be you next time.”

“It could be any of you,” came an authoritative voice from a point well above the swarm of gliders. Twillor hovered near the ceiling of the training room, overseeing the hawkriders’ exercise. “All of you are making the same mistake. Don’t try to outguess your opponent. _Assume_ that when the strike comes it will be aimed at you, and be ready. Again, if you please, Longshanks?” The plains elf looked up at him and nodded, then waited as Nalkor unwound the bolas from his legs and dropped them into their owner’s hands.

This time Longshanks waited only long enough to bring the bolas up to speed before hurling them, trying to catch one particular airborne elf off guard. But that one was too quick for him. With a single fluid motion Airwolf evaded the spinning projectile, then twisted in midair to snatch the cord with one hand. “Lose something?” he inquired, grinning down at Longshanks and dangling the bolas.

The plains elf chuckled and shook his head ruefully. “Show-off.”

“All right,” Twillor said. “Now that Airwolf has shown you all how it should be done…” His tone was sardonic, but a note of pride in his protégé could be detected. “One more time. Keep in mind that any one of you could be the next target.”

Again the ready crouch, the whirling bolas. But this time as he gazed upward, Longshanks’ eyes met Airwolf’s for a flashing moment. An accord was reached without need of sending. Longshanks’ body arced. The bolas flew from his hand. Airwolf dodged nimbly out of their path and they went snaking straight up to snare Twillor. The flight leader made a startled exclamation as the cord encircled his legs. The hawkriders burst into laughter. Longshanks crossed his arms and drawled, “Well, you said ‘anyone.’”

Twillor’s response was wry. “So I did. All right, I think that is enough for today. You are all excused. Remember that there will be an eyrie inspection this afternoon.”

The gliders drifted to the floor like so many falling leaves and left the exercise room singly or in twos and threes, talking. Twillor and Airwolf were the last to land. “Thank you for the assistance, Longshanks,” the flight leader said, holding out the bolas to the plains elf. His mouth quirked up in a smile. “And the reminder.”

“Anytime,” Longshanks responded. “Good practice for me, too.”

“Would you care to join Airwolf and me for a bath and some refreshment?” Twillor inquired. “I have not yet had the opportunity to speak with you at length about the Outside.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” the plains elf said. “There’s a few things I’ve been wanting to ask you, too.”

Twillor nodded. “Fair enough. But a bath first, then food. I shall have Neshom bring the daymeal to my eyrie.”

By the time the three elves, bathed and freshly clothed, climbed the curving staircase to Twillor’s chambers, the human servant had already come and gone, leaving their meal set out in an inner room on a low table: flat bread, a variety of cold meats, a clay jar of fruit preserves, and a dew-beaded jug of sweet cider. The room was bright in comparison to the shadowy corridors, lit by the sun shining through a shaft in the rock that was capped with clearstone.

Twillor motioned to the other two to make themselves comfortable among the piled cushions that surrounded the table. He crossed the room and pushed aside a woven curtain, letting in a breath of spring air, then stepped through the opening behind it. Longshanks heard a deep churr followed by the murmur of the hawkrider’s voice, and guessed that the curtained doorway led out to the eyrie proper where Twillor’s bond-bird nested. Curious, he peeped through the opening. The huge bulk of the giant hawk was silhouetted against the light, the slim form of Twillor beside it. One of the elf’s hands rested on the bird’s neck. Longshanks turned away and came back to sit at the table across from Airwolf.

“He’ll be back in a few moments,” the chestnut-haired elf said. “He just wants to make sure Dagger Wing doesn’t feel neglected.” He waved a hand at the table. “Help yourself. We don’t stand on ceremony when the humans aren’t around.” Suiting the action to the word, he reached across to snare a leg of cold roast fowl. Longshanks took a piece of the flat bread and spooned some of the sweet preserves onto it. He rarely got to indulge his sweet tooth when he and his friends were on the move.

Twillor came back into the room, leaving the curtain partway open behind him to admit the air. He settled down among the cushions next to Airwolf and poured himself a cup of cider. “An interesting session today,” he commented, “and useful, I think. It is not easy to come up with new challenges for my hawkriders these days.”

“Glad to help,” Longshanks said. “But why all the training, Twillor? You all aren’t expecting an attack, are you? Far as I can tell, there’s nobody ’round here who would attack this place, even if they could.”

“No,” the flight leader agreed, “not at present, though it has happened. A large tribe of Outsider humans invaded the Redrock Valley once, a long time ago, and occasionally we get raids. It is always best to be prepared for the unexpected—as we demonstrated today.” He smiled briefly. “But apart from that… We are not without function, we hawkriders. We are the hunters of Tower Mountain as well as its scouts. Those who venture into the world outside must be fit and alert, as I suspect you know better than any of us. And, too, it is part of being Declared that we should strive for excellence in all our abilities.”

“Declared,” Longshanks repeated. “Is that another name for hawkriders?”

“Not precisely. The Declared are those in Lord Tyaar’s personal service, who have sworn oath to him. Many of us are gliders and hawkriders, hunters and warriors, but not all. Mikail, for instance, is of the Declared, though he is not a hawkrider or even a glider; he was honored for his excellence in the dance. Other artists and artisans have been similarly honored. Beliel, too, as Lord Tyaar’s second-in-command, is counted among the Declared.” Twillor’s mouth twisted slightly in distaste.

_You don’t like him either, huh?_ Longshanks thought, but kept his thoughts to himself. Instead he asked Airwolf, “What about you?”

“I’ve sworn no oaths,” the chestnut-haired elf said quickly, almost fiercely. Then he added, “I’ve only been here a few turns. Officially I’m still Twillor’s pupil and not ready to become Declared yet. If ever.”

Longshanks snorted. “Looks to me like you’re ready. You can run—’scuse me, fly—rings ’round any of those others.”

Airwolf grinned, showing white teeth. “Well, I’ve got a natural advantage. I’m part wolf.”

“Uh-huh,” Longshanks responded, not taking him literally. “We ‘Outsiders’ get trained whether we like it or not, don’t we? If we want to go on living.”

“Quite true,” said Twillor. “But there is more to being Declared than mere skill. A certain commitment is involved… No, I agree with Airwolf. It would be wrong for him to take oath to Tyaar now.”

“Even if he would accept it,” Airwolf interjected. Twillor threw him a look. He smiled with a hint of irony and added, “From an ‘Outsider.’”

Twillor frowned slightly and turned to Longshanks. “You should not take offense at that term, Longshanks, nor others that you may hear. There are those of our people who were born in Tower Mountain itself and know no other life. Even those who were not often remember the Outside only dimly, and have no recollection or knowledge of other elves besides ourselves. It is difficult for them to know how to react when faced with members of our race whose existence they never suspected.”

“’Specially if they’re ‘homeless drifters,’ right?” The flame-haired elf winced visibly. “I don’t put much weight on words, Twillor,” Longshanks continued more softly, “even if they happen to be true.”

Twillor sat up straighter and fixed the plains elf with an intense gaze. “Are they? Is it true that you and your companions have all lost your tribes?”

“Pretty much,” Longshanks affirmed somberly. “My tribe was wiped out by a prairie fire. Bugdance had most of his die off in a plague. Halfwise … I guess you’ve heard about that. Now, Heartseeker—” He smiled a little. “His tribe was doing all right, last he knew. But he still lost ’em—left the tribe for reasons of his own and never could find his way back. We helped him look for awhile, but we never found ’em. Outside’s a big place,” he finished with a shrug.

“And full of peril, it seems,” Twillor responded, sinking back on the cushions with a sigh. “I could wish for a more hopeful picture of life beyond the Redrock Valley.” He frowned into his cup.

“Why? You thinking of moving out?” Longshanks asked half-humorously.

Twillor glanced up, his expression guarded. “I? No. What makes you think so?”

“Well … you were telling Lord Tyaar just last night you though you folks were getting too isolated.”

The flame-haired elf laughed, his face clearing. “Ah. That is a very old philosophical argument between Lord Tyaar and myself. I am afraid that neither of us loses the slightest opportunity to take it up again. Pay it no mind. No,” he went on in a lower voice. “I am Declared. To leave Tower Mountain would be a breach of my oath to my lord.”

Beside him, Airwolf stirred. “What about yourself, Longshanks? Are you planning to stay for awhile—stop drifting and settle down?”

It was the plains elf’s turn to look uncomfortable. He covered it by reaching for the cider as he replied, “I guess. Long as my friends want to stay, anyhow. It’s a nice place.” He glanced up from filling his cup just in time to catch the look that Twillor and Airwolf exchanged. What it meant he could not tell.

The flight leader smiled at him. “I am glad to hear it. There is much you can teach us, I think, and perhaps we can contrive to return the favor. We have had many turns to develop our skills. I hope you will find the time to attend more of our training sessions.”

“Don’t see why not,” Longshanks responded, a smile of his own waking at the warmth in Twillor’s tone. “Time is something you all seem to have plenty of, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. But in this case—” Twillor glanced at the patch of sunlight from the shaft, which had moved steadily across the floor as they talked. “—time is short before Eylar and Tanyel arrive to begin the eyrie check. I must let you both go, and school myself to be austere and unforgiving.” Airwolf snorted. Twillor rose from the table, glancing down at the remains of their meal. “Airwolf, can you show Longshanks back to his room? I am sure he still finds all our stairs and passages confusing. And please ask Neshom to come clear this away.”

Airwolf nodded. “Sure. Come on, Longshanks. I’ll point out the landmarks as we go. Don’t worry. You’ll learn them eventually. Only took me a turn or so.” But Longshanks found himself attending with only half his mind to Airwolf’s commentary as they made their way back down to the lower levels. The rest of it was considering a new problem.

Twillor wanted out. Despite the flight leader’s denial, Longshanks was as certain of it as he was of the daystar’s rising and setting. Twillor’s reaction to the plains elf’s casual remark about moving out proved he took the matter seriously. But that made no sense. Surely Twillor had everything he could want right here: a home, friends and kin, a comfortable existence, a position of trust and responsibility which, Longshanks felt, suited him admirably. He did not seem the kind to fall prey to simple wanderlust. Yet he was quick to befriend Outsiders such as Airwolf and Longshanks, eager to hear of the world beyond the Redrock Valley, troubled when the prospects of survival out there seemed dim. He wanted out. That could only mean that life in Tower Mountain was not the idyllic existence it appeared to be on the surface.

Something was wrong here. Longshanks intended to find out what it was.

 

Heartseeker leaned his crossed arms on the ornamented balustrade and stared up into a dizzying vortex of stone with a small patch of brightness at its center. “It goes all the way up?” he marveled.

“Do you mean the Great Hall or the Grand Stair?” Doleera asked. The ruddy-haired hawkrider maiden hopped off the balustrade and went to sit on a fur-padded bench that was shaped into the low wall of the landing. Beside her was a bowl of figs; she took one and nibbled at it delicately. “In either case, the answer is yes—though there are not many openings off the Stair once it gets above the eyrie levels.”

“So that patch of light up there—that’s the sun?”

“Well, the top is roofed with clearstone to keep the rain out, but yes.”

“Fantastic!” the small elf murmured.

“It’s not a good idea to look at it too long,” she advised kindly. “It will make your head spin.”

“It’s spinning already.” He stepped away from the balustrade and came to sit beside her. Perched on the edge of the bench, his toes barely reached the floor.

“Ah, Heartseeker,” she laughed, “how much like a child you seem.”

He stiffened and drew his legs up under him. “I’m not that young.”

“No?” she inquired archly. “But I didn’t mean it that way. I meant the way you stare at things, seeing them for the first time. Surely you have seen things equally marvelous in your travels.”

“Not like this.”

“And loved many maidens, too, I do not doubt.”

“Not one,” he answered truthfully, his deep brown eyes meeting hers. “Not since I left my home tribe.”

“Oh, poor Heartseeker! But before that?” Her emerald eyes sparkled with merriment.

“Well, yes. I was telling you and Kiriel about that last night.”

“Indeed.” Doleera’s voice took on a melodramatic tone. “Each time you thought you had found the maiden of your dreams, she was cruelly snatched away by—Recognition! A curse on our kind!”

“Oh, no!” he found himself protesting. “Recognition is a wonderful thing. Why, my parents—” He broke off at her inquiring look, flushing with embarrassment.

“Go on,” she said kindly. “Your parents were Recognized?”

He nodded. “Heartfree would probably never even have noticed Dusksinger if it hadn’t been for that. And she would have been too shy to speak to him. But once eyes met eyes … they were like one soul in two bodies, they used to say. They loved each other so much that—that he died, trying to save her.”

“Ohhh,” Doleera breathed, her tone melting with sympathy. “How sad! A love like that—is that what you want, Heartseeker?”

“Well, I … I’ve always hoped, dreamed that … someday…”

She leaned closer, gazing into his eyes. “And would it have to be … Recognition?”

“Not … not necessarily,” he stammered, half hypnotized by her green eyes and dizzied by her scent as she drew near him.

“Fortunate,” she murmured, “for we of Tower Mountain do not Recognize. We no longer have need of it. But that does not prevent our pursuing the pleasures of love.” She smiled slowly, languidly. Her slim fingers touched his shoulder, traveled down his arm, paused so that her hand lay over his where it leaned on the bench. “Tell me about your dreams of love,” she whispered, “and perhaps they will come true.”

Heartseeker felt as if he were sinking into the emerald pools of her eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to collect his whirling thoughts enough to be able to reply.

He never got the chance. Footsteps clattered on the stairs above them. Doleera sat up suddenly, muttering under her breath what sounded like a curse. The dapper figure of Peysol the wardrobe master appeared on the landing. “Ah, there you are, Doleera,” he said cheerily.

“Were you looking for me, Peysol?” There was just the slightest edge in her voice.

“Yes, I was. I have that new evening costume ready for you to try on. The green silk? It has to be fitted rather carefully, you know.”

“Can’t it wait?” she pouted. “It’s not the best of times, Peysol,” she added meaningly.

“I’m afraid it must be now,” he said firmly. “Charming as you are, Doleera, you are not the only maiden I must bedeck for Beliel’s dinner party. I am already behindhand.” He spread his hands. “I’m truly sorry, but—”

“Oh, very well,” she said, rising gracefully.

Peysol looked relieved. “Come with me, then. It shouldn’t take long.” He turned and started down the stairs. Doleera followed him. Heartseeker blinked, looking after the two of them in bewilderment, and wondered dimly why she had not asked him to wait for her. Resolved to do so anyway, he picked up a fig from the bowl and nibbled it disconsolately.

A new set of light footsteps came from above. “Why, Heartseeker!” came Kiriel’s voice. “Are you sitting here all alone?”

 

“Mikail, I don’t understand something Uncle Tyaar did this morning.”

“What do you mean, Piet?” the dancer asked. The two of them were climbing a long, curving stair that led to the upper levels of Tower Mountain. “What did he do?”

“Well, he called me into the throne room, and there was another elf there … I don’t remember her name too well. She has yellow hair and looks proud and strong. San—Shan—”

“Shadaln?”

“That was it. There were two humans with her. Uncle Tyaar told me their names, and then he told them who I was, and then he said they were mine.” Halfwise looked at his brother with confusion in his brown eyes.

“That means they are your personal servants, Piet,” Mikail explained. “Most elves in Tower Mountain have at least one. They are there to care for you, see to your wants, run messages—that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” This seemed a novel idea to Halfwise. “Uncle Tyaar did tell them they should take good care of me,” he remembered.

“I am sure they will,” his brother assured him. “Shadaln and Kesik will have chosen them with great care. Shadaln is Lord Tyaar’s cousin and the seneschal of Tower Mountain. She and Kesik are in charge of all the humans here. They take their duties seriously.”

Halfwise looked at him pleadingly. “But I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well, all you really have to do is tell your humans when you want something. In time they may get to know you well enough that you won’t need to, but till then, just make sure to ask. Remember that humans can’t send.” The dancer smiled. “I also suggest you make friends with them. That shouldn’t be hard for you. Humans can be good friends, especially when you need someone to talk to. I used to tell Ilsegar—my body-servant, he died just a turn or two ago—things I wouldn’t tell anyone else. I could always count on him not to laugh at me, except when I needed it.” Mikail sighed. “I miss him. But there will be others.” He turned back to Halfwise. “Do you understand a little better now?”

“I think so. But there was another thing…” Halfwise’s brow furrowed. “Uncle Tyaar … he told them, ‘Take all care of my son.’ That’s not right. I’m not his son, I’m his nephew.”

Mikail paused on the stairs at these words, momentarily frozen with one slim hand on the stone banister, his face turned away from his brother. He started up the steps again, slowly. His answer came haltingly too. “I think—I think Lord Tyaar would like you to consider him your father, now that your own father is dead. He—never had a son of his own, you see.”

“Oh.” Halfwise looked more perplexed than ever. At last he ventured, “Do you think he’ll be mad if I still call him ‘Uncle Tyaar’? I don’t think I can call him ‘Father.’ It doesn’t sound right.”

Mikail patted his brother on the shoulder. “I think he will understand. He may just have said that for the humans’ benefit. Shadaln told me once that to them, a brother’s son is practically the same as one’s own son, especially if the brother is dead. In any case, I wouldn’t worry about it, Piet. Look, we are almost there.”

The two mounted the last few stairs and came to a tall arch screened by an elaborate tapestry. The hanging depicted a many-branched tree abundant with leaves, flowers and fruits, no two alike. When Mikail drew the tapestry aside, soft light and fresh green scents flowed out over the two elves. “Oh!” Halfwise exclaimed in delight. “It’s a garden!” He ran forward, his lightly shod feet crunching on gravel. Mikail entered behind him.

“I thought you might like this,” the dancer said, smiling.

Halfwise spun in place, trying to take in the entire scene at once. “It’s beautiful!”

The garden was circular in shape. In the center a fountain had been drawn from the living rock. Four graceful elfin figures held up a wide bowl from which water continuously spilled into a basin below. A ring of fruit trees encircled the fountain, their boughs intertwined in a congenial webwork. Pink gravel paths radiated out from the center like the spokes of a wheel, running between beds of herbs. Many of the plants were in flower and all gave off sweet scents. Thick green mats of vine and ivy covered the walls. Stone benches were scattered here and there. On one of these in a far corner sat a human girl, playing softly on a reed flute.

“But where’s the sky?” Halfwise asked, looking up at a roof that glowed with milky light.

“The garden is roofed with clearstone. It lets light in so the plants can grow, but it keeps out rain and snow.”

“But plants can’t grow without rain, either.”

“The gardeners keep them watered. And this way, you can come and enjoy the garden no matter what the weather is like outside.”

“Oh, apples!” Halfwise ran up the path to the ring of trees and gently drew down a red-hung bough, burying his face in pink and white blossoms. Then his head came up abruptly. “This isn’t right!” he said in a bewildered tone. “It isn’t supposed to have flowers and fruit at the same time. Oh … wait—” He turned to Mikail and smiled. “It’s magic, isn’t it? I can feel it.”

It was the dancer’s turn to look startled. “You can?”

“Oh, yes. It’s like a tingle running all the way down the branch.” Halfwise stroked the underside of the apple bough with light fingers and laughed. “It tickles.” He looked at Mikail again. “Can’t you feel it?”

“No.” The dancer came up and laid his fingers on the tree next to Halfwise’s. “No, I can’t. Piet, are you a treeshaper?”

Halfwise shook his head in unconcerned denial. Then he said, “Father couldn’t feel it either, I remember now, not in trees. In rocks he could. Mother was the one who showed me what it felt like in trees. Her father was a treeshaper,” he offered.

“Yes, I remember you said that. Have you always been able to feel magic?” Mikail took Halfwise’s hands in his and examined them curiously.

“I think so. As long as I can remember. Tower Mountain is full of magic. I remember feeling it when we first came in, all the rockshaper magic. It made me sad, because it reminded me of home.”

“You mean the Hidden Valley.” Halfwise nodded. “Tell me about your home, about our father’s city,” Mikail urged, drawing his brother to sit beside him on a nearby bench. “Was it like Tower Mountain?”

“Sort of. There were lots of shaped things, like here.” Halfwise ran his fingers absently along the edge of the bench. “And Father was lord of the city the way Uncle Tyaar is. But it wasn’t as … closed up … well, it was, because no one could get into the Valley, but we had the hometree grove, and the city wasn’t … it was…” He looked at Mikail entreatingly. “Can I show you with pictures? I’m not good at words.”

“Of course, Piet, however you like,” Mikail answered, taking his brother’s hand and patting it.

Suddenly the garden around them vanished. Mikail found himself standing on a high balcony of shaped stone. Below him lay an ordered tangle of walls and flat roofs, courtyards and gardens, stairs and terraces. Here and there towers rose, smooth or fluted, spiraled or minaretted or arrow-straight. So overpowering was the vision it was as if he stood there in the flesh. And beside him stood…

The dancer’s sharp, shocked gasp was so loud in the quiet garden that the servant girl, startled, dropped her flute and hurried over to the two elves. “Is something wrong, Honored One?” she asked anxiously.

Mikail looked in her direction, but his blue eyes were unseeing, his face drained of color. “Father,” he whispered. Then he shook his head and seemed to become slightly more aware of his surroundings. “No, Senya. Nothing is wrong. Only … leave us.”

“At once, Honored One.” The girl bowed and scurried out.

“Are you all right, Mikail?” Halfwise asked worriedly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s all right.” The dancer managed a smile. “I just wasn’t prepared for that vivid an image. You have a very clear visual memory, Piet.” He took his brother’s hand again, his eyes lighting. “More?”

For a long while the two figures sat motionless on the stone bench under the apple trees. But for Mikail it was as if he had been transported through time and space to the Hidden Valley long ago. Through Piet’s eyes he walked its paths and byways, visited the hometree grove where those who wished could dwell in the branches and hollows of living forest giants, strolled along the shores of its gleaming lake, wandered through its woods. Elves walked through the vision too: Meiron, his father, tall and proud, with hair of pale gold and ice-blue eyes, his aquiline face more lined than Mikail’s own memories made it, but marked with laughter as well as care; Periel, the maiden who had brought back the laughter, small and brown-haired, with a sweet face and warm brown eyes that recalled Piet’s; her parents, Maryah and Vannhael, whose names came to him as soon as he saw them; others whom he did not know or remembered only dimly. They smiled at him out of a past he had never known, but that he yearned toward as if it were his own.

**Enough,** he sent at last. **Enough for now.** Gently he pulled away from his brother’s mind-touch and opened eyes wet with tears to look into Halfwise’s calm face. “Oh, Piet,” he whispered, “so much to have lost…” He rose abruptly, clasping his elbows. “So beautiful… I should like to make a dance of it, show it to everyone … but I’m not sure I can.” He walked a little way down the path, his head bent.

“Mikail?”

The dancer waved a distracted hand. “Don’t worry about me, Piet. I just need to … absorb some of this. Look around the garden some more if you like.”

“All right.”

For some time Mikail paced the gravel paths, not seeing the garden or anything around him. In memory he retraced the paths he had walked with Piet, seeking a way to translate them into the language of movement. Gradually he became aware of a sound weaving its way into his reverie, the sweet notes of a reed flute. He blinked. Hadn’t he sent Senya away? He turned to find Halfwise sitting on the bench the girl had vacated, holding the flute in his hands. “Well! I am learning all sorts of new things about my brother today,” he said softly. “Do you play, then, Piet?”

“No,” Halfwise answered, looking down at the instrument as if seeing it for the first time. “That is, I never did before. But it was lying here and I thought I’d try it. It doesn’t seem very hard.” He put the flute to his lips once more. His fingers moved over the holes, bringing forth a sweet, wandering melody.

Mikail listened for a while, then asked, “Are you playing anything in particular?”

Halfwise lowered the flute and shook his head. “Just what comes.”

The dancer smiled. “Yes, I do that too sometimes, improvising. Let the movement come from the feeling…” His face lit with inspiration. “Can you—can you think about what you just showed me and let the music come out of that? Play it for me, Piet. Play it, and I will dance.”

His brother looked at him for a moment, his head cocked at a considering angle. He raised the flute to his lips. A few fumbling notes came out, then one high, pure tone that ended in a series of liquid notes like a bird’s call. Halfwise smiled with pleasure and repeated the phrase, then followed it with another and another. His eyes closed as the music took hold of him.

Mikail listened, letting the music wash over him for a few moments. Then, tentatively, he reached for his brother’s mind, attempting a sending-rapport. He often used this technique with dance students, so that they could share his knowledge of how a body should move, how a step should be done; or with a musician, to sense the intent of the music and interweave his dance with it more closely. His mental touch was light at first so as not to startle Piet. He met no resistance from his brother’s mind; on the contrary, he felt acceptance and even welcome, as if he were a long-awaited guest. Emboldened, he probed deeper, seeking the music’s source.

Too late he realized his mistake, if mistake it was. Even with the welcome he had been given, he had expected barriers. There were none. He was plunging headlong into a pool of light, unable to stop himself. The heart of the light lay before him, shining like the daystar, pulsing out the rhythm of the music that flowed from it, opening itself to him lovingly, joyfully. The warmth of its touch caused his spirit to open in its turn like a blossoming flower to reveal the star within. The light and song enfolded him; he was the light, they were two, Piet and Mikail, yet also one. They were music and dance, each complete in itself, yet able to shape each other and make a unified whole greater than either could achieve alone. Each gave himself completely to the other and in so doing became more fully himself.

The flute cascaded to a close, ending on a single low, clear note. Mikail found himself kneeling on one knee on the path, head and arms flung back, concluding a dance he did not consciously remember beginning. He knew, however, that a part of his mind, the cool, observant artist, had recorded every note, every movement. If he wished, he could recreate this dance exactly. Yet another part of him knew he never would, except perhaps for a particular audience of one. What he and Piet had shared was too precious to be displayed to others—

—and too revealing. What Piet had played, what Mikail had danced, was the expression of a communing of souls on the deepest level possible. Even if he were one day to Recognize, the dancer felt, he could be touched no more intimately. If anyone else had done so, perhaps even Nalkor, his dearest friend, he would have been afraid, for he had always feared the invasion of his most private self. But with Piet, strangely, he felt no fear, but acceptance, and fulfillment, and joy.

At last Mikail lowered his eyes to look at his brother, brother now in more than blood. Piet sat quietly, holding the flute, the smile on his face a faint echo of the shining within. His eyes meeting Mikail’s said that he knew at a level deeper than thought what had passed between them. Words to speak of that communion and the bond it created were neither necessary nor desired. Yet something must be said, if only to send the moment on its way and start the flow of time again.

“You play beautifully, Piet.”

“I liked that dance. You weren’t sad this time.”

“No … no, I wasn’t.” Mikail rose. “We had better start back down. It must be nearly time for dinner.”

“All right.” Halfwise glanced down at the flute. “Should I leave this here? She’ll come back for it, won’t she?”

“I don’t think Senya would mind if you borrowed it. I’ll speak to Sharai about it—Senya is her servant. But we’ll see if we can’t get you one of your own.”

“I’d like that. I like making music.”

As the two stepped out of the garden and Mikail was about to let the tapestry fall behind them, Halfwise said thoughtfully, “Maybe I can play for Uncle Tyaar sometime. Do you think he’d like that?”

Mikail’s frozen pause with the heavy embroidered cloth in his hand was only momentary. But he left his brother’s question unanswered as he turned away and started down the stairs. Despite their new closeness, he did not want Piet to sense the hope and the fear that had suddenly arisen within his spirit.

 

The rising and setting of the daystar made little difference to those who dwelt within Tower Mountain, but Longshanks supposed it was night. At least that was what his body said, still attuned to the cycles of the world outside. The young human couple who seemed to have been assigned to Halfwise had come and gone, leaving the beds in the sleeping chamber turned down and a single lamp burning. Longshanks had brought the lamp over to the table by his own bed. He sat cross-legged in the pool of yellow light it made, stitching the soles on a pair of boots. Not that it looked like the boots would be needed anytime soon, but he wanted something to occupy him while he thought over the day’s events. He was beginning to feel drowsy, though. Once the other three came in, he would be glad to lay down his work and get some sleep.

The step outside was so familiar that he did not even glance up when the curtain over the entry was pushed aside. “Evenin’, Bugdance. Have any luck finding Nosey?” When several heartbeats passed with no response, he looked up, with a twinge of worry as the fact registered that his friend’s step had been considerably slower than usual. “Bugdance?”

“I found him.” The jungle elf’s voice was colored with more than its normal huskiness. As Longshanks peered beyond the lamplight, he saw that his friend cradled something in his arms, his curly head bowed over it. A long, ringed tail hung limply over one elbow.

“Aw, no…”

Bugdance came over and laid his burden on the bed. Longshanks reached out to touch it. The small, furry body was cold, stiff under the russet pelt. He looked up to meet Bugdance’s eyes, depthless dark pools in the wavering lamplight. “Where’d you find him?” he asked quietly.

“On that big staircase. I went exploring today, you know, kind of looking for him, but then I met this girl, Vallaree…” A brief spark flickered in the jungle elf’s eyes. “We spent most of the day together. I went down to the kitchens afterward to scrounge something to eat. Then I was coming back here and I saw something lying in a corner … behind a big stone jar … furry … he was sort of curled up, lying on his side…” Bugdance turned away for a moment. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed. One brown hand reached out and began to stroke his bond-friend’s fur absently. “He was getting old, you know, Longshanks. I knew it had to be sometime soon. I just wasn’t expecting it right now, you know?”

“I know.” Longshanks stared down at the coati, remembering Nosey and Bugdance playing their game of keep-away while the four wanderers were being escorted to Tower Mountain—was it only a hand of days ago? Nosey had seemed lively enough then, but you never could tell. “So you think he just crawled into a corner and died?”

“Maybe. I guess so. I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

“Can I see him for a moment?” Bugdance nodded; his hand fell away from the coati. Longshanks turned the body over, inspecting it with gentle fingers. “No wounds,” he murmured, “or anyway, no blood. Except…” A white gleam caught his eye. He peered more closely at the coati’s muzzle. Nosey’s lip was drawn up in what looked like a snarl, showing his sharp white teeth. The fur around his mouth bore several brownish stains. Longshanks’ mind leapt back to something he had seen in his youth, a jackal that had swallowed some madweed. He remembered vividly the animal’s thrashings as it snarled and snapped at the air. The body had been spattered with blood afterward from where it had cut its lips with its own teeth. Now that he looked at Nosey’s body closely, the conviction grew that the coati’s death had been no more peaceful. The limbs were drawn up, claws bared, the head and upper body twisted to one side as if the animal had been writhing in pain. But in pain from what? Bad food? Maybe he had accidentally eaten something poisonous. Yet Nosey, despite his inquisitiveness, had always been canny about food. In fact, in their travels the elves had learned to pay attention to what Nosey would and would not eat. If Halfwise and Nosey both okayed an unfamiliar plant, then it was safe. Longshanks could not believe his friend’s bondbeast had died of poisoning.

But if he had not died of poison or wounds, or simply of age, what had killed him?

Bugdance was speaking softly. “D’you remember the day we found Halfwise? It was all Nosey’s fault, you know. He was the one who found that cave, the one that turned out to be the beginning of the tunnel. We probably would never have known it was there if it hadn’t been for him crawling into it and me having to go after him.”

“I remember.”

“And he helped me rescue you, too, distracted that human long enough for us to get away.”

“Yeah. Um, Bugdance…”

Just then they heard footsteps outside. A moment later Heartseeker came into the room. The small elf wore a bemused expression. “Weird place, this, really weird. You know, I don’t think there’s one private spot in this entire mountain?” He caught sight of Bugdance. “Hey, Bugdance, did you have any luck with the girls?” Then he saw what lay on the bed between his two friends. “Oh, dung…” Heartseeker came quickly over to them and laid a hand on Bugdance’s shoulder, his brown eyes full of sympathy. “Bugdance, I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah, ’s okay.”

“How did it happen?”

“We’re not sure,” Longshanks replied. “Bugdance just found him like this.” He did not attempt to voice his own doubts and speculations.

Heartseeker nodded. Then he suggested gently, “It might be a good idea to get him out of here. If Halfwise comes in and sees him, he’ll be really upset.”

“Yeah, they always did get along,” Bugdance said with the ghost of a smile.

“Do you want me to—” Heartseeker began.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll find a place. There’s a big garden on the main level, with flower bushes and things … Vallaree was showing me.” Bugdance got up. “Give him to me.” Longshanks lifted the small body and placed it in Bugdance’s arms. The jungle elf went out; his soft footsteps retreated down the corridor.

The small hunter turned to Longshanks, frowning. “Longshanks, there’s something wrong here. I didn’t want to say anything to Bugdance right now, but I don’t believe for a moment that Nosey just wandered off and died.”

“You saw it too, huh? Yeah … looked to me like he went down fighting.”

Heartseeker’s frown became deeper. “Fighting what?”

“I don’t know,” Longshanks responded grimly. “But I get the feeling we’d better start trying to find out.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the revolution starts. Really.

Chelle hummed softly as she went about her work, straightening and smoothing the beds’ silken coverlets, plumping and arranging the cushions. The human girl was as happy as she could ever remember being. In her heart she thanked all the spirits of the Mountain yet again for her present position.

As personal attendant to the Spirit Lord’s own son, she had experienced a rise in status normally unattainable by a youngest daughter, even the daughter of a Warrior of the Golden Torc. Better yet, her beloved, Adrovic, had been chosen to serve along with her. Not only could she be near him almost every day, but now surely her father could no longer withhold his consent to their bonding. Bertold had never thought much of Adrovic, with his almost girlish looks and gentle ways, but now the old warrior would have to admit the lad was worth something if he had been selected by His Voice to attend upon the son of the Great Spirit. The spirits’ wisdom was unquestioned.

Adrovic and Chelle had been somewhat overawed by their new responsibility at first, but the Spirit Lord’s son proved to be a kind and undemanding master. Though he was a strange one, unlike any other spirit Chelle had ever seen. In his manner there was nothing of the cool dignity usually displayed by the spirits toward their human servants. He looked straight at you when he spoke to you, a trait they had found unnerving until they dared to meet his warm brown eyes. And he asked questions. Normally when a spirit questioned you it was either a test or a reprimand. The spirits did not need to ask questions of humans; the spirits knew everything. But this one asked questions about all kinds of things for no reason at all and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.

“Chelle?” She glanced up from her work to find him watching her from his own bed on the other side of the room, the big one with the canopy. He lay on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands and his feet in the air, for all the world like her youngest brother Temmi who had seen barely eight turns of the seasons. Not for the first time, Chelle wondered how old he was. She knew, of course, that spirits were ageless and immortal and thus had no children. But how then, she wondered suddenly, could this one be the son of the Great Spirit? Perhaps a child had indeed come to the spirits of the Mountain. That would be a great portent.

“Yes, Honored One?” she responded, straightening. The one time she had called him “High One,” he had blinked at her and said, “I’m not a High One,” so she and Adrovic had settled on the more usual form of address.

“Where did Adrovic go today?”

“He went to visit his family. His older sister had a baby and he wanted to be there for the Naming.” In fact, Chelle thought with a touch of pride, Adrovic’s sister had expressly asked that he be there, as one favored by the spirits.

“A baby?” The sandy head tilted inquiringly.

“Yes, a fine, healthy boy, he said.”

Her master smiled as if this news amazed and delighted him. Chelle liked his smile. It seemed to illuminate his whole face and always made her feel like smiling back. “I’ve never seen a human baby,” he said after a moment. “Do you think I could, Chelle?”

The human girl looked at him in surprise. “You want to see Adrovic’s sister-son?”

“If it would be all right,” he qualified, swinging one foot diffidently. “Do you think Adrovic could bring the baby here?”

Chelle paused. She had never heard of a spirit asking such a thing. It seemed to her that she remembered a fragment of legend about a time when all children born in the Redrock Valley were brought to the Mountain to be presented to the spirits. But even if the legend was true, it had been a very long time ago. And hadn’t the practice been forbidden? She could not remember. Certainly human children were not permitted in the Mountain now. Even pregnant women were usually excused from service until their children had been born and weaned. “I don’t think it would be allowed,” she said.

His face fell. “Oh.” Then after a moment it brightened again. “Well, maybe we could go see the baby.” The notion seemed to please him. It astounded Chelle even more than the previous one.

“You mean—go to the village?” she faltered.

“Yes.” He did not seem to notice her astonishment. “I’d like to see your village and meet your people. I’ve never been in a human village before. What’s it like?” His brown eyes were bright with curiosity. Chelle felt her apprehensions melt away under his gaze.

“Well,” she began, “there’s the dancing ground in the middle, with the council hut at one end…” She glanced around, grabbed a fat cushion and plumped it on the bed in front of her. “There. That’s the council hut. There’s a half-ring of huts behind it, like the shield-wall.” Several more cushions joined the first, ranged behind it in a ragged semicircle. “And then there are more huts under the trees. The stream flows here…” She drew a line with her finger. “…this is the weavers’ pavilion … the tanner’s hut is here, because the wind usually blows this way…”

He watched her impromptu model-building with fascination. “It sounds nice,” he said at last. “I’d really like to go there and see it. Could I?” He looked up at her hopefully, his face alight. Chelle felt all her awe flood back. A spirit coming to the village? Such a thing had never happened in any legend she had ever heard. The spirits dwelt in their sacred mountain. Carefully selected humans came to them to serve them. The spirits did not mingle with ordinary humans. But now … the son of the Great Spirit himself wanted to visit their village?

“Wouldn’t it be allowed?” he continued when she did not answer immediately, doubt and disappointment edging his voice.

“Oh, yes!” she blurted, “yes, it would be wonderful!” and was rewarded by his delighted smile. “When—when would you like to go?”

“Now?” he suggested shyly.

That took Chelle aback for a few moments. She gulped. “Um … I don’t think… Could you give us a day or two to get ready?” The elders would never forgive her if she let a spirit descend on them without any warning. Though if it was what he wanted, she was willing to brave their wrath.

But he merely nodded wisely. “You’re right. Mother always told me it wasn’t polite to visit somebody without telling them first.” He paused, considering. “I’m supposed to be with Mikail tomorrow. How about the next day? Is that enough time?”

She nodded emphatically. “It should be. Adrovic and I will come for you that morning, after your—uh—friends leave.” Though she had begun to feel at ease with her new master, Chelle still felt uncomfortable around his companions. She did not like the watchful way the three of them looked at her and Adrovic, nor their air of wildness that hinted at faraway, frightening places beyond the Redrock Valley’s rim.

The Spirit Lord’s son smiled at her. This time she yielded to the impulse to smile back. “All right,” he said.

 

By the time Adrovic and Chelle arrived on the appointed morning, Halfwise was nearly bursting with anticipation. His three friends had all left early. Longshanks, wearing the grim, preoccupied look that seemed to have become almost as much a part of him as his cap during the past few days, had been collected by Airwolf to attend a training session with the Declared. Kiriel had arrived only a short time later with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, asking for Heartseeker. She refused to say where they were going. Bugdance had left about the same time, announcing jauntily that he had an appointment with a lady too. None of them asked Halfwise about his plans for the day, though before he left, Longshanks gripped his young friend’s shoulders and said earnestly, “You watch out for yourself, Halfwise. Don’t go wandering around on your own again, hear?” A few days before, Halfwise had wandered all the way up to the main eyrie. Though he had come to no harm and even made friends with one of the junior hawkriders, his companions were obviously uncomfortable with the thought of his being in such close proximity to the giant hunting birds. Halfwise wondered a little guiltily if they would approve of his visiting the human village. He knew all three of them were wary of humans, especially Heartseeker. But these humans were nice. And Mikail seemed to think it was all right. When they had been together the day before, his brother had asked him what he would be doing the next day.

“Adrovic and Chelle are taking me to visit the humans,” Halfwise had announced proudly.

The dancer smiled and said, “I see you took my advice. Enjoy yourself, Piet.” So obviously he didn’t think there was anything wrong with it.

Memories of being taken to visit his mother’s family in the hometree grove, where a good deal of climbing around was required and informality was the rule, had prompted Halfwise to dress simply, in a linen tunic, breeches, and soft boots, not unlike what the humans themselves usually wore. Adrovic and Chelle found him sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, watching the door expectantly. The two humans seemed excited too. Adrovic had on a new tunic with an embroidered border on sleeves and hem. Chelle’s silky black hair was unbound rather than in the single braid she usually wore. The girl had brought her master’s morning meal on a tray, but Halfwise was too worked up to be hungry and only picked at the food while the two young humans busied themselves with making the beds and trimming the lamps. At last they were ready to go. The young elf fairly danced out of the door with the two humans trailing behind him.

They walked down the curving hall for a ways, then turned into the short passage that led to the Grand Stair. Adrovic and Chelle were hard put to it to keep up with their spirit master as he went skipping down the huge spiral staircase. The human guards at the foot of the Stair gave them a curious glance and a respectful nod, but no more. When they reached the floor of the Great Hall, Adrovic and Chelle turned instinctively toward the archway that would take them to the servants’ hall and the back entrance, but Halfwise was already headed for the main Door. The humans exchanged a look and nodded. Of course: the son of the Great Spirit would hardly leave the Mountain by the servants’ entrance.

The three of them paused for a moment in front of the sheer wall of red rock and the high alcove where the gaudily clad rockshaper sat. Halfwise frowned slightly as he tried to remember how Eylar had made the wall open. Hadn’t he sent something to the rockshaper? Yes, that was it. Halfwise looked up at the motionless elf in his elaborately embroidered robes, and sent.

Deep in the Door’s stone-bound spirit, something stirred. The sending was not one of those he was keyed to. Normally he responded only to a limited number of individual mental voices, mindspeaking certain set phrases. But this sending was not verbal at all. It touched his spirit at a deeper level and impressed it irresistibly with the image of stone parting, allowing passage. Such was its vividness and power that it transcended his conditioning. The rock must open. Rockshaper magic flowed, and it did.

Completely unaware that he had done anything unusual, Halfwise trotted through the opening into the spring sunshine. Equally unaware that their master should not have been able to pass the Door, Adrovic and Chelle followed him. Was he not the son of the Great Spirit? Of course he could come and go as he pleased. Some time after they had passed, awareness came to the rockshaper that the entrance stood open. This was undesirable. He closed it behind them, leaving no trace of their passage.

Once they were outside, Halfwise let the two humans take the lead. The day was fine, the sun warm on his face, the sky clear and blue with a few puffy clouds near the horizon. A mild breeze scented with apple blossom ruffled his sandy hair. He looked up at the sky and laughed with delight. The humans’ eyes turned to him; then they smiled, responding to his joy.

“How far is it to the village?” he asked Adrovic.

“Not very far. It’s at the edge of those trees over there.” The youth pointed ahead of them to where a leafy grove lay partway up the valley’s slope. At this distance some of the village’s huts could be seen.

“I see it. It looks just the way you showed me, Chelle.”

High above Tower Mountain a pair of giant hawks wheeled as their riders surveyed the valley below. Glancing down at the human village, Nalkor spotted three figures moving toward it, two nearly adult-sized, one closer to the size of a child, all dressed in the simple clothing of Tower servants. Kitchen help returning home from the morning shift, he guessed. Or perhaps it had something to do with whatever festival was toward in the human village. They had all been scrambling around like ants in a kicked anthill yesterday. Either way, it was no concern of his. The humans had many festivals and observances during the year; he did not bother to keep track of them all. He turned Broadspan toward the far end of the Valley.

The two humans and the elf rambled down a gentle, grassy slope. At the bottom was the stream that curved around the village, which they crossed on a narrow wooden bridge and started up the opposite slope. As they drew nearer the trees, a small boy who had evidently been on lookout went racing for the tall central hut, scattering the flock of chickens that pecked at the ground in front of it. A few moments later a group of humans emerged from the large hut and came to stand in the center of the dancing ground. “Those are the village elders,” Chelle told Halfwise.

The elders were dressed in long robes woven and embroidered in many-hued patterns, profusely ornamented with beads and feathers. Halfwise thought they looked very splendid but rather hot. He asked Chelle, “Do they always dress like that?”

The girl shook her head. “Only on festival days.”

Halfwise, reminded of the jubilant Festival of Flowers which had always been his favorite time of year in the Hidden Valley, exclaimed, “Oh, I love festivals! Are you really having one?”

“Of course,” Chelle answered, glad they had pleased him.

The elders came to greet them as they entered the dancing ground. The High Priest of the Spirit Lord, bedecked in shades of blue with a tall headdress of giant hawk feathers, stepped forward and bowed deeply to Halfwise. “A thousand welcomes, Honored One. The dwelling of the _Bakhansha-urd-Mraal_ , the Dwellers in the Blessed Land, is made eight times more blessed by your presence. We pray you to look kindly upon all that you see.”

The young elf was rather overcome by this magnificent personage and his flowery language, but not so much as to forget his manners. “Thank you,” he said to the priest. “I’m happy to be here.” He looked around in admiration at the gorgeously dressed elders. “You all look very fine.” He turned to Adrovic. “Can I see the baby now?”

The priest turned to the youth also. “Baby?” he queried in the Mraal tongue.

Reddening a little, Adrovic answered in the same language, “The _Bakhansha-ná_ wished to see my sister’s child.”

“By all means,” the priest said stiffly. “Let the child be brought.” Adrovic bowed and started for his sister’s hut, only to find Halfwise following him. The elders looked after the two of them for a moment with various expressions of shock, disbelief and bewilderment, but none of them were about to gainsay the son of the Great Spirit. Instead they came hurrying after him, so that Adrovic found himself leading an impromptu procession across the dancing ground. Chelle brought up the rear, followed by a flock of curiously clucking chickens.

When they came to the door of his sister’s hut, Adrovic said, “Wait here,” and ducked inside the hide curtain that screened the doorway. There was a brief murmur of excited voices within, capped by a feminine wail: “But Adrovic, I haven’t _cleaned_!” Nevertheless the youth reappeared a few moments later and drew aside the door-curtain with a bow.

“Enter, Honored One.”

Halfwise was small enough to enter the hut without stooping, but most adult humans would have to. It was made of wattle and daub and roofed with thatch. The earthen floor was covered with mats woven of straw. Bundles of sleep-furs lay in an untidy pile to one side. A clay cookpot hung over the central firepit in which a few embers glowed; they, along with what light came in through the doorway and the smokehole in the roof, provided the only illumination. The hut smelled faintly of smoke, more strongly of humans.

On the far side of the fire sat a woman. She had Adrovic’s dark, wavy hair and dark eyes, with very much the same cast of features. Halfwise guessed she must be his sister. Crouched next to her was a tall man with straight brown hair and a blunt face. “This is my sister Anthis, Honored One,” Adrovic said softly from the doorway, “and her mate, Turlo.”

Halfwise smiled shyly at the human couple. “Hello. My name is Piet. I came to see the baby.” The two of them stared at him with a mixture of wonder and curiosity. This was not at all how they had expected the son of the Great Spirit to look. Spirits were supposed to be beautiful and terrible. This one was neither, this slight figure with his straight, sandy hair falling nearly into his warm brown eyes. Except for his pointed ears and four-fingered hands, and the elaborate golden torc that gleamed at his throat, he could easily have passed for one of their own children. Yet they did sense a power in him, one that reached out gently and touched them with love. The woman’s tentative smile answered his as she bent to uncover the bundle that lay in her lap.

The young elf approached her and knelt down next to her to see better. He gazed at the infant’s tiny sleeping face in wonder. “He’s so little!” he marveled. “What’s his name? Can I touch him?”

“Of course you may, Honored One,” Anthis said softly, forming the elvish words with care. Though she had been a Tower servant in her day, it had been years since she spoke to a spirit. “His name is Anlo.”

Halfwise reached out and stroked the baby’s downy hair. Anlo’s eyes opened, startlingly blue, and looked up into the elf’s brown ones. “Hello, Anlo,” Halfwise said. The baby yawned. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.” The baby waved a tiny fist and gurgled. Halfwise, fascinated, reached out a finger and promptly found it clasped in a surprisingly firm grip. His eyes widened. Then he laughed. “Oh, he’s strong! How old is he?” he asked, looking up at Anthis.

“Ten days,” she answered. “One cycle of Child Moon and two. No, my little one, don’t do that,” she admonished Anlo. The baby, while Halfwise’s attention was elsewhere, had begun sucking on his finger. The young elf looked startled, but made no move to pull his hand away.

“Why is he doing that?” he asked curiously.

“He is hungry,” Anthis explained, gently disengaging Anlo’s fingers from Halfwise’s. “I need to feed him.” She began to unlace the bodice of her dress. Halfwise watched in fascination as she put the baby to her breast and he began to nurse.

“Um … Honored One?” came Adrovic’s hesitant voice. The youth was looking a trifle nervously out of the door of the hut.

“I have to go,” Halfwise told Anthis. “Thank you for letting me see the baby. Goodbye, Anlo.” He touched the baby’s hair. “Be well.” With a smile for Anthis and Turlo, he rose and moved toward the door of the hut. Anthis hugged the baby to her, overcome with joy. The spirit had blessed her child!

“Thank you, Honored One,” she whispered.

It was doubtful if Halfwise heard her. Adrovic had drawn open the door-curtain. The young elf stood at the door of the hut, staring at the crowd of humans outside. News of his arrival had spread quickly through the village. While he was in Anthis and Turlo’s hut, most of the inhabitants who were not out in the fields had gathered, eager to catch a glimpse of the Spirit Lord’s son. Halfwise looked around nervously. Heartseeker always said humans were dangerous, especially in large numbers. But none of these humans looked fierce or angry, though the little group of elders off to one side looked somewhat annoyed. Most of the villagers wore expressions of wonder and curiosity. And there was Chelle among them, smiling at him. Halfwise smiled back and stepped forward. “Hello, everybody,” he said, raising a hand in greeting.

Just then there was a commotion at one end of the crowd. A tall, thin woman with a worn, angular face and a mane of reddish hair pushed several others aside and rushed up to Halfwise, crying loudly, “O spirit, bless my child too!” She fell to her knees and thrust toward him what looked like a bundle of rags. A thin cry came from it. The young elf looked more closely and realized it was a baby. “My need is greater than hers!” the woman was saying half angrily, her elvish so thickly accented it was hard to understand her. “Anthis has a mate and a family to care for her and her child. I have no one!”

Halfwise was not listening. He approached the woman and drew the rags away from the child’s face. He looked up at Adrovic with wide eyes. “A baby? Another baby?”

“Well, yes,” the youth admitted, “there are other babies in the village.”

“There are? Oh, I want to see them!” Halfwise burst out, then amended, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” But no one heard that part amid the excited murmurings of the crowd.

Halfwise turned back to the thin woman. “May I?” She nodded mutely. He reached out and stroked the baby’s tear-wet cheek. “Poor baby! Don’t cry.” The baby looked up at him with wide, dark eyes. The young elf tickled it; it gurgled. Halfwise smiled. The baby smiled back and gave out a delighted crow. Halfwise laughed. “There, now you’re happy. Oh, he’s a wonderful baby,” he told the woman. “What’s his name?”

The woman’s eyes dropped. “He has no name, O spirit,” she muttered, “for he has no father to give him one.”

Halfwise looked puzzled. “But he has to have a name.” His face lit with an idea. “How about if I give him one?”

The woman’s head came up sharply, her eyes growing wide and round. “O spirit … if you could…” There were some shocked murmurs at her boldness, but Halfwise was too busy thinking to notice them.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’m not very good at making up names, but there’s one of mine I don’t use anymore. Would ‘Torc’ do?”

“Tor-ek?” the woman repeated slowly. Then she hugged the baby to her with a proud smile. “His name is Torek!” she proclaimed. “The spirit has said so!”

Meanwhile other mothers had gathered with their children. For awhile Halfwise was fairly inundated with babies of all ages, from infants less than a moon old to toddlers. He happily admired them all, drying tears, tickling plump cheeks, returning smile for smile and laugh for laugh, was drooled on and had his fingers chewed and his hair pulled. The sun was well past its zenith when the last of the mothers reluctantly took up her child and returned to neglected tasks.

Halfwise glanced wistfully at Adrovic, who had watched the whole procedure with a bemused expression. “Do we have to go back now?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” the youth answered quickly.

“No indeed,” Chelle added. “There will be a feast at sundown. You do want to stay for that, don’t you?” She could not keep an anxious note from her voice. The elders were put out already by her master’s unexpected behavior. They would never forgive her if he left their carefully planned feast without its guest of honor.

She need not have worried. Halfwise smiled radiantly and said, “Of course!”

“In the meantime, do you want to see the village?” Adrovic asked, with an apologetic glance at the elders who still stood in a cluster nearby.

“Oh, yes, I’d love to!”

For the rest of the afternoon, the young elf was escorted all over the village by Adrovic, Chelle, and the group of elders, who found it hard to believe that a spirit could take such a lively interest in lowly matters but were not about to let him out of their sight on that account. Many of the villagers were startled at first by the miniature procession, but Halfwise nearly always put them at ease with his ingenuous questions and his delighted smiles at the answers. He watched in fascination as a potter drew a graceful jar from a spinning lump of clay on the wheel, got the tip of his finger dyed blue when he visited the dyers’ hut, and learned more than he could possibly remember about the process of weaving from Jharali the chief weaver, a rotund, jovial woman who was well known as one of the greatest talkers in the village. At one point his attention was caught by a group of children playing in the stream. Nothing would do but that he must take off his boots and join them. He and Adrovic both wound up thoroughly drenched when they got inveigled into a splashing contest. The elders were horrified, but their fears of spirit wrath were soon dispelled by the young elf’s happy laughter.

Halfwise laughed often that afternoon. He could not remember the last time he had felt so good. Everyone was friendly and seemed glad to see him, and everything he saw was new and fascinating. He could not imagine why Heartseeker thought humans were dangerous. Why, these humans were wonderful.

As sunset approached, Halfwise was led back to the dancing ground. “Oh, it _is_ a festival!" he cried in delight when he saw it. The broad, flat area had been ringed with tall poles atop which torches burned brightly. Twined around the poles and strung between them were garlands of flowers and streamers of bright cloth. Long, low tables had been set up in rows in front of the poles, leaving a clear area in the center. A smaller table stood before the door of the central hut. It was to this table that Halfwise was led. There were no chairs; instead, straw mats were spread on the ground. The young elf found himself seated with the richly dressed elders.

Once they saw him settled, Adrovic and Chelle began to move toward one of the long tables. “Where are you going?” Halfwise wanted to know.

“Chelle and I are going over there to sit with our age-mates,” Adrovic explained, motioning toward a far table where various youths and maidens of the village were already seated.

“Oh,” Halfwise said, crestfallen. “I was hoping you’d sit with me,” he went on wistfully. “Or maybe I could sit over there with you and your friends. Would that be all right?” Adrovic shot a slightly desperate look at Chelle, who in turn looked over at the elders.

“Whatever the son of the Great Spirit desires, of course,” the High Priest of the Spirit Lord said with a frozen dignity worthy of Tyaar himself. Halfwise sprang up happily and followed Adrovic and Chelle to the young people’s table. There he was seated between the two of them with much jostling and laughter. The youths and maidens were triumphant. Unless chosen for the spirits’ service, they normally had little status in the tribe until they mated. Now the son of the Great Spirit himself honored them with his presence.

The eldest of the elders, the head of the Sisterhood of the Serene Mother, shook her white head. “Strange are the ways of the spirits,” she intoned to her fellow elders. “We must not question, only accept.” The other elders looked at each other and nodded wisely.

When most of the tribe had gathered and seated themselves at the long tables, the pries of the Spirit Lord clapped his hands. A procession of maidens came out of the central hut, bearing large, flat baskets piled with garlands of bright flowers. The maiden in the lead glanced inquiringly at the priest. He motioned her toward the youths’ table where Halfwise sat. She paused only for a moment before leading the row of girls up to the far table. There they knelt in a graceful line before Halfwise, holding out the baskets. “It is our custom,” Chelle murmured in her master’s ear, noting his puzzled expression, “to wear garlands at festival. These have been fashioned for you.”

His eyes grew wide. “For me?”

“Of course, Honored One.” Chelle knew that much of the previous day had been spent by the maidens in stringing these garlands. Each hoped the son of the Great Spirit would choose to wear one she had made, proving her skill the greatest, just as the young warriors contested yearly to be chosen over all others to serve the Spirit Lord.

Halfwise scanned the offered baskets with growing wonder. “They’re all so beautiful,” he said at last. “But I can’t wear them all! What can I do?” Then an inspiration lighted his eyes and he smiled. “I know! Adrovic, can you wear one for me? And you too, Chelle? And all the rest of you?” He looked around the table at the astonished young people. “Here.” Reaching over the table, he picked a garland at random and set it on Chelle’s dark head. He did the same for Adrovic, then, jumping up, went down the line of youths and maidens asking, “Will you wear this for me?” No one refused him. By the time he returned to his place he had acquired one too, but no one cared any longer who had made it.

Meanwhile, garlands had been distributed to the other feasters as well. Now the priest of the Spirit Lord clapped twice and youths appeared bearing bowls and platters of food. There was game from the surrounding countryside, bristle-boar and venison, pheasant and strutter-cock and quail. There was fish from the nearby lake. There was no fresh fruit at this season of the year, but the last of the previous autumn’s store had been baked into cornmeal cakes. There were several different kinds of bread, strong-flavored goat cheese, and a sweet pudding made of milk and eggs and maize flour. There were roots and other vegetables cooked in oils and spices. Each dish was presented to Halfwise’s table first. The young elf, remembering how he had been taught to behave at feasts, politely took a little of everything. The youths and maidens, used to being served last, helped themselves generously from the unexpected bounty. But there was more than enough for everyone; the Redrock Valley was a rich and kindly land, and the feast had been specially prepared to display its plenty and the prowess of its hunters and farmers to the son of the Great Spirit.

A youth leaned over Halfwise’s shoulder and filled his cup for the second time. “What’s this?” the young elf asked him, holding up the vessel of golden liquid.

“It is called amberwine, Honored One,” the youth replied.

“Oh.” Halfwise smiled luminously. “It’s good.” He took a large swallow of the honey-scented brew. It seemed to glow all the way down his throat. “More?” he asked shyly, extending the cup. The youth with the jug was more than happy to oblige.

 

High in his private observation chamber, among the very few rooms in the Tower with windows to the Outside, the lord of Tower Mountain gazed down at the humans’ village and noted the many torches burning. He frowned in puzzlement. What feast was toward in the village tonight? Lord Tyaar made it his business to know everything that transpired in the Redrock Valley, including the habits of its native humans, but he did not remember a feast that normally fell at this season. Was this a new custom of the Mraal of which he had not heard? His mind probed outward, touching the mind of an elf who sat entranced in a high chamber above the main eyrie. Through her far-seeing eyes he scanned the human village. His frown became deeper. A sending lanced from him, spearing down through the Mountain to the mind of a particular other elf. **Shadaln. What festival do the Mraal hold this night?**

**Festival? None that I know of, my lord.**

**There are torches in the village, torches in a ring, feasting and dancing. I wish to know why.**

**I shall inquire, my lord. I—my lord! What’s that?**

 

Elsewhere in the Tower, two elves sat at the lip of an eyrie, gazing up at the stars. Heartseeker had his arm around Doleera’s slender waist, while his head rested on her shoulder. For some time now he had been contemplating the possibility of moving his hand, but had not decided in which direction he should move it. He was not in any hurry about the decision. Though the way one always seemed to get interrupted at the most inopportune moments in this place… But he felt too good to want to rush things tonight.

“Heartseeker?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you have any idea what that is?”

“What what is, love?”

“I feel something—odd. Sort of a sending…”

The small elf forced himself to concentrate for a few moments and suddenly realized that the fact that he was sitting under a beautiful night sky with a beautiful elf maiden, though reason enough to be happy, was not the only source of his feeling of boundless good cheer. He gave a surprised chuckle. “Woh! Feels like somebody fed dreamberries to Halfwise.”

“What?”

Heartseeker laughed. “Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you about that. This was back a few turns, a bit after I joined up with Longshanks and Bugdance and Halfwise. We’d found a patch of dreamberries, so the four of us were sitting by the fire that night, passing them round. Only Halfwise wouldn’t take any. He said his mother had told him not to eat them. Well, as you might expect, Bugdance wasn’t about to settle for that. He asked him why, and as usual Halfwise didn’t know. So then Bugdance told him he was a big boy now and it was all right for him to eat dreamberries. It took awhile, but we finally convinced him. I think Bugdance just wanted to find out what Halfwise would do under the influence. We found out, all right!” He laughed again.

“What does he do?” Doleera asked suspiciously.

Heartseeker waved a hand. “ _That._ Halfwise is a happy sort most of the time anyway. When he eats dreamberries he gets even happier. And he starts sharing it round, generous soul that he is. Projecting, I guess you’d say. Actually I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. It makes you feel really good, but it’s a bit distracting when you’re supposed to have somebody alert enough to keep watch.” A thought occurred to him and he snuggled closer to Doleera. “I guess we don’t have to worry about that, do we?”

The redhaired hawkrider maiden did not respond. Her slim body had gone tense. “My lord sends to me. I must tell him of this. Come!” She rose abruptly and pulled Heartseeker to his feet.

“But, Doleera—”

“Come!” she repeated more sharply. “You must tell Lord Tyaar what you have told me.” She dragged him out of the eyrie, protesting all the way.

When the two of them arrived in the throne room, it looked as if an impromptu and rather tense council was in progress. Lord Tyaar stood in front of his throne, a cold gaze fixed on a yellow-gowned Shadaln. Beliel, Mikail, and Twillor were also present. All of them had the unsettled air of elves unexpectedly called away from more enjoyable pursuits. Beliel’s feet were bare beneath the floor-length robe he had belted around him; it didn’t look to Heartseeker as if the rockshaper was wearing anything else under it. Mikail’s hair was damp and even more wildly tousled than usual. Twillor still had on his hawkrider’s leathers; presumably the flight leader had had a late patrol.

“I wish to know the cause of this disturbance,” Tyaar was saying, controlled anger in his tone. “I also wish to know why it is that my nephew no longer seems to be within Tower Mountain.” He turned as Doleera and Heartseeker entered. “Doleera. Can you and your—companion perhaps provide us with some enlightenment upon these matters?”

Doleera placed her hands on Heartseeker’s shoulders and steered him toward Tyaar. “Heartseeker tells me, my lord, that the ‘disturbance’ is the result of your nephew’s becoming—er—intoxicated.”

Lord Tyaar fixed his ice-blue eyes on the small hunter. Heartseeker suddenly felt like a mouse in the middle of an open field with a hawk overhead. But Tyaar’s words to him were quiet, as if to let him know that the ancient elf’s anger was not directed at him, at least for the moment. “Tell me of this.”

Heartseeker gulped. “Well, my lord … what I said to Doleera was that this—” He gestured vaguely to indicate the waves of giddy emotion permeating the aether. “—felt like somebody had been feeding dreamberries to Halfwise. It could be worse,” he added helpfully. “At least he’s not sending pictures. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he—well, anyway,” he continued hastily as Tyaar’s eyes narrowed, “all you have to do to stop it is sober him up, pour cold water over him or something… Say, where is Halfwise, anyway?” His dark brows knitted as Tyaar’s earlier words registered. Hadn’t the Tower Lord said something about Halfwise not being within the Mountain?

“That,” Tyaar commented sardonically, “is what we are attempting to find out.” His eyes swept the rest of the assembled elves. “Has no one seen my nephew today? Did he tell no one of his plans? Mikail? You were with him yesterday, I believe.”

“Yes, my lord,” the dancer replied. “He said—” His blue eyes widened in shock. “He said his two attendants were taking him to visit the humans today. My lord, I thought he meant the servants’ quarters here, or perhaps the kitchens. I didn’t realize—he must have gone to the human village.”

“Shadaln?”

The tall blond elf returned her lord’s gaze steadily, arms folded. “I have questioned the Tower servants who remain within the Mountain and the guard at the back entrance. I was told of a rumor that the ‘son of the Great Spirit’ was to visit the village today. Those I questioned did not believe the rumor, however, and neither he nor his attendants passed through that Door. That I will swear.”

“Do you expect me to believe,” Tyaar inquired acidly, “that the three of them simply strolled out of the main Door?”

**They did not pass through the servants’ Door.** Shadaln’s open sending was a clear and hard as diamond and as cold as ice.

“I do not question your word, cousin,” Tyaar said softly. “I merely wish to find out how they managed to leave the Tower without anyone noticing. Twillor, what of the hawkriders? Who was on patrol today? Did no one see them enter the village?”

Twillor exchanged a brief glance with Mikail. “They may have been seen by one of the patrol riders and been mistaken for humans, my lord—which two of them were. It is possible even for a trained observer to see what he expects to see. And I have noted that your nephew does not—well, he does not move like a hunter, my lord.”

Heartseeker had been listening to this exchange with a certain degree of bewilderment, but he had grasped at least one fact. “Do you mean Halfwise is out there in the middle of a human village?” he burst out. “And you’re all just standing round talking about how he got there?”

“Peace, young one,” Lord Tyaar told him. “I doubt he is in any danger.”

“But if they’re feeding him dreamberries—”

“That, I think, is unlikely,” the old elf said with a faint smile. “Dreamberries are poisonous to humans. The local wine is more probable, I fancy.” The blond head tilted slightly and the ice-blue eyes narrowed. “My, he does project rather strongly, doesn’t he?” The smile grew deeper, considering. For some reason it sent a chill up Heartseeker’s spine.

“Please, we’ve got to go get him!” he pleaded.

“Indeed, yes. In that we are in perfect agreement. The unraveling of this matter can wait. Twillor! Take one of your riders with you and go to the human village to fetch my nephew home. But tactfully, Twillor, tactfully. We do not wish to alarm the Mraal. Mikail, go with them. Piet seems to like you. Perhaps you will be able to persuade him should that prove necessary.”

“Yes, my lord.” The two elves bowed and started for the door.

“Wait, my lord!” Heartseeker blurted. “Let me go along. Maybe I can—”

“No!” The Tower Lord’s sharp refusal was followed by a milder explanation. “They will ride the hawks there and back. Each bird can only carry two riders. Do not be concerned for Piet.” His smile this time was warm, at least on the surface. “He will come to no harm, and soon he will be safe in the Tower again.” Heartseeker nodded in acquiescence as Twillor and Mikail left, wondering why Lord Tyaar’s words did not comfort him.

 

The Dance of Youths and Maidens ended with a shout and a skirl of flutes. Halfwise, who had watched and listened with unflagging delight as several groups of dancers displayed their grace and skill before the feasters, laughed and clapped enthusiastically. “Oh, that was wonderful!” he cried as the dancers turned to him and bowed. “Is there more?” he asked Adrovic, seeing the youths and maidens begin to drift away from the cleared area between the tables.

“That is the last dance, Honored One,” Adrovic answered with a touch of regret.

“Oh.” Halfwise’s disappointment lasted only for a moment before inspiration struck. “ _I_ know a dance!” The young elf jumped to his feet, swaying a little from the effects of several cups of amberwine and with his garland slightly askew, but not seriously impaired. All eyes turned to him. “I know a dance everyone can do!” he proclaimed. “It’s an easy one. Come on, Adrovic, Chelle, I’ll show you!” He grabbed the startled young humans’ hands and led them around the table to the dancing ground.

“We used to do this dance in the Hidden Valley at the Festival of Flowers,” he explained. “You get in a long line holding hands… Come on!” he called to the departing dancers, beckoning vigorously. “We need more people in the line.” Slightly mystified, but ready to do as the spirit asked, the youths and maidens returned to the dancing ground and joined hands in a long line. Halfwise smiled at them radiantly. “Now, it goes like this. One, two, three, hop! One, two, three, hop!” He looked over at the musicians. “Can you play something that goes with that?”

“Assuredly, Honored One,” the leader of the musicians answered with a bow and a smile. He put his flute to his lips as began a light, merry tune that matched the four-beat of the dance step.

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Halfwise exclaimed. “Follow me, everybody!”

The dance step was indeed simplicity itself. It was not long before the youths and maidens, led by Halfwise, were dancing around the cleared space, more or less in step, with the musicians in the center. Suddenly the young elf changed direction and began snaking between the tables, drawing the line after him. “This is the fun part,” he explained. “You take the dance all over, in and out and around everywhere. Come on, everybody!” he called gaily. “Join the line! Come on, it’s easy!” There was little response at first until Halfwise, who had reached the high table, grabbed the hand of the eldest elder and pulled her to her feet. “Come on!” he encouraged her, eyes sparkling. “It’s no fun unless everybody does it. Please?”

The elder looked into the young elf’s shining, happy face and felt a warm glow pervade her spirit. Truly he had power, this young one, this laughing spirit. She found she could refuse him nothing, that she was glad to do his bidding. She stepped forward, an answering smile creasing her aged face, and seemed to feel her long-vanished youth return as her feet took up the simple step.

Halfwise threw back his head and laughed joyously. “Come on!” he called out again. “Everybody! Everybody!” One by one, then in twos and threes, the villagers rose and joined the line of dancers. Elders and warriors, farmers and artisans, youths and maidens, mothers and their children, mingled at random as the line grew, weaving in and out among the tables and the garland-hung torchpoles. It burst the confines of the festival ground and began snaking through the village, led by the laughing Halfwise. At one point he plunged into the door of a hut and emerged leading a bent and graybearded ancient whose bad digestion and worse temper had kept him away from the feast. The old man was welcomed into the line with shouts of gladness. So was the thin woman whose baby Halfwise had named when they found her picking through a basket of rags at the edge of the village. She was swept into the dance with her child nestled in the crook of one arm. Even the musicians were included, keeping step beside the winding line since they needed both hands to play their instruments, but still an integral part of the whole.

The dance went on, in and out among the huts, through the dancing ground, out and back again. No one could remember afterward how long it lasted. Perhaps they passed into a place outside of time. All they knew was that they followed the son of the Great Spirit, that they danced, flower-crowned beneath a starlit sky, that they were one with him and with each other, and that their spirits overflowed with joy.

No one noticed the three slim figures standing just beyond the firelight when the dance finally wound to a close in the middle of the dancing ground. There Halfwise collapsed to his knees amid the crowd of humans, laughing in gasps, his garland tilted crazily over one eye. “Oh, that was wonderful!” he cried joyfully. “You’re all wonderful! I love you all!”

Adrovic and Chelle came and knelt beside him. “Are you all right, Honored One?” the dark-haired girl asked with a touch of concern, reaching over to straighten his wreath for him.

“Oh, yes, I’m just tired,” he answered, leaning against her. “It’s so wonderful…”

**Piet.** A slender, golden-haired figure stepped into the firelight.

**Mikail!** Halfwise’s sending was muzzy, but it glowed with happiness. **Did you see our dance? Wasn’t it wonderful?**

**Yes, Piet, it was.** The dancer’s blue eyes were suspiciously bright in the light of the torches. **But it is time for you to come home now. Twillor and Nalkor and I have come to take you back.**

**Yes, I guess it is time for me to go,** Halfwise agreed reluctantly. **I feel awfully sleepy.** He got to his feet unsteadily, helped by Adrovic and Chelle. “I have to go now,” he told the humans. “Thank you for inviting me. I had a wonderful time. Good night!” He threw his arms around Chelle and hugged her tightly. At one time the young woman would have been startled by this, but now it seemed perfectly natural for her to hug him back, so she did. So did Adrovic when Halfwise turned to him. So did the next dancer in line, the white-haired head of the Sisterhood.

**Piet,** Mikail admonished.

“I have to say goodbye to everybody!” the young elf protested. “They’re all so wonderful!” In the end he insisted on hugging everyone in the village, from the eldest elder on down to the youngest child. The humans, somewhat to the amazement of the watching elves, returned his embraces with equal fervor.

**I’ve never seen a bunch of humans so happy,** Nalkor remarked with a mental chuckle. **Do you think it’s the wine, or are they picking up that ‘happysending’ somehow? High Ones know it’s nearly knocking me down from here.**

**I don’t know,** Mikail returned. **I suppose it is possible…** His sending trailed off thoughtfully.

At last the three Declared were able to persuade Halfwise to depart. As they led him away into the darkness where Dagger Wing and Broadspan waited, the young elf turned to wave to the humans one last time. “Goodbye!” he called. “Thank you! I’ll come back someday and we can have another dance.”

From either side of him, Mikail and Twillor exchanged a glance and a regretful shake of the head. They doubted Piet would ever come back to this village again.

 

At the first sound of approaching wings, Longshanks was on his feet and hurrying over to the curtain that screened off Dagger Wing’s eyrie from the rest of Twillor’s quarters. Halfwise’s giddy sendings had trailed off some time before. His friends awaited his return with a mixture of anxiety and impatience.

“Longshanks,” Airwolf said warningly from among the cushions where he sat with Bugdance and Heartseeker.

“I won’t spook the thrice-cursed bird!” the plains elf snapped. “I just want to be here when they—” He paused at the sound of voices beyond the curtain.

“Here we are, young one,” came Twillor’s warm tones. “You can let go now. Take care getting down. Have you got him, Mikail?”

“Yes,” the dancer replied. “Steady, Piet.”

Then Halfwise’s voice, muffled and slower than usual. “I’m all right. That was fun. I like flying.” A pause. “I’ve lost my wreath.”

“Nalkor, you had better take Broadspan back to her eyrie,” said Twillor. “I wish to speak to you after I tend to Dagger Wing. I shall meet you there.”

“Aye, Twillor.” The sound of departing wings mingled with that of approaching footsteps. Longshanks pulled the curtain aside.

“Halfwise?” The plains elf could see the dim forms of Halfwise and Mikail against the circle of night sky framed by the rock passage leading to the eyrie. To his alarm, Halfwise seemed to be leaning against his brother for support. “Halfwise, you all right?”

“Oh, is that you, Longshanks? I’m fine. I’m just sleepy.”

Longshanks gripped his friend’s shoulders as Halfwise came stumbling into the inner chamber with Mikail close behind. He gazed intently into the young elf’s face. Halfwise’s brown eyes were drooping, but he wore a drowsy smile. “He is unharmed,” Mikail said quietly.

The plains elf scowled at him, then turned back to Halfwise as Bugdance and Heartseeker came up to them. “Why’d you go off on your own like that, huh?” he scolded gently. “I thought I told you not to do that. We were worried about you.”

“I wasn’t on my own,” Halfwise protested. “I was with Adrovic and Chelle. They took me to their village, and I saw all the babies, and there was a festival and we danced, and I had a lot of fun, only I’m sleepy and I want to go to bed.” He looked around the room, blinking in confusion. “This isn’t our room. Where is this?”

“We’re in Twillor’s eyrie, Halfwise,” Heartseeker told him. “Airwolf brought us here to meet you. We’ll take you back to our room and you can go straight to bed, all right?” He smiled at his sandy-haired friend.

“And in the morning you can tell us all about your adventures,” Bugdance added.

Halfwise nodded. “Uh-huh.” He swayed against Longshanks. The plains elf put a steadying arm around his shoulders.

“He’s not going to be able to walk that far on his own,” Longshanks predicted. “He’s all tuckered out. All that sending must’ve really taken it out of him. Bugdance, you get the other side. Come on, young’un.” Half leading and half carrying the young elf, they headed out the door.

Heartseeker lingered a few moments to speak to Mikail. “Thanks for bringing him back.”

The dancer’s mouth twisted wryly. “Don’t thank me—” he began.

“Look,” the small elf broke in, “don’t mind about Longshanks. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but, well, he and Halfwise … I mean, all four of us are friends, but—”

“But Piet has been like a son to him. Yes. I saw that. Believe me, I am grateful that my brother has such friends. I would like to get to know all of you better, if I could.”

Heartseeker smiled. “Suits me. But Longshanks may take a bit more convincing. Still, we’ve got time, haven’t we?” He glanced toward the doorway. “’Scuse me—I’d better catch up with them before they get too far.” Mikail nodded acknowledgement and the small elf hurried out.

“Oh yes,” Airwolf spoke up from the shadows, softly but with a hint of irony in his tone. “All the time in the world, haven’t we?”

The dancer threw him a troubled look, but all he said was, “Tell Twillor I shall be in Nalkor’s eyrie.” He went out, his slippered feet almost soundless on the stone.

 

When Halfwise woke, it was with the impression of someone bending over him and a cool touch on his forehead, but all he saw at first was the embroidered floral patterns on the canopy above his bed. “Longshanks?” he called out tentatively.

“Your friends have gone about their various pursuits,” a calm voice said. Halfwise turned his head and saw Lord Tyaar sitting by his bedside. “I persuaded them that you would probably sleep for most of the day after your exertions of last night,” the old elf went on. “It seems I was mistaken.” He smiled slightly. “Ah, the resilience of youth! Well, no matter. I wished to speak with you privately in any case. We have had little time alone together since you came to Tower Mountain. Unless you wish to go back to sleep?” he inquired kindly.

“Oh, no. I feel wide awake now.” Halfwise sat up and pushed aside the bedclothes.

“Excellent. Dress yourself, then, and come with me. We shall take breakfast in my private garden.”

When Halfwise was dressed, Lord Tyaar led him out of the sleeping chamber and through the corridors to the Grand Stair. They descended several courses of the huge spiral before stepping into one of the myriad passages that led from it. They walked down a curving corridor decorated with ornate pilasters and lamp-brackets, past a set of tall double doors of dark, polished wood in which the image of a feathered serpent was intricately inlaid in chips of colored stone, until they came to another door at the very end of the corridor. This door was also of wood and it too bore the image of the feathered serpent, this time wound around the bole of a branching tree. The door had a gold-plated handle with a keyhole above it. Lord Tyaar took a small golden key from around his neck and inserted it into the lock.

“An interesting invention, locks,” he remarked to Halfwise. “This is one of the few in Tower Mountain, and I possess the only key to it. Thus only I and those whom I invite may enter here. I find it ideal for meditation—and private conversations. Of course,” he smiled, “I must leave the door unlocked perhaps twice in an eightday for the convenience of the servants who come to water the plants. The mundane always intrudes, not so? But today it will not.” He swung back the heavy wooden door and drew the young elf inside with an arm about his shoulders.

Lord Tyaar’s private garden was in some ways similar to the one Mikail had shown to Halfwise, having the same clearstone roof, and beds of flowers and small plants separated by winding paths. The paths here were flagged, however, so that the elves’ lightly shod feet made almost no sound. Nor were the paths and flowerbeds so obviously ordered and centered. Yet they did give the feeling of being patterned, more subtly perhaps, but with each stone and growing thing in its particular place.

Beneath an arbor of trellised vines a low table had been set, much like the one in Twillor’s quarters, with cushions where one could sit or recline. Tyaar led Halfwise to the table and drew him down to sit at his side. Then he reached over and struck a small silver gong that stood nearby. A few moments later an elderly human servant appeared with a tray. He set it on the table and bowed to Tyaar, then, at a gesture from the Tower Lord, went out silently, closing the door behind him. The latch clicked. “Now none can disturb us,” Tyaar said.

The tray the servant had brought held a platter of sweet cakes and a pot filled with a steaming drink that smelled pleasantly of herbs and spices. Tyaar poured out two cups of this, then sat back and sipped at one while Halfwise ate and looked around at the screens of vines and beds of herbs. Finally the old elf said, “So. What do you think of my garden, nephew?”

“It’s very nice,” said Halfwise. “Only—” He turned puzzled brown eyes on his uncle. “These plants … aren’t they all poisonous?” He waved a hand toward a clump of purple nightshade that grew beside the path.

Lord Tyaar laughed. “You are most percipient, nephew. Your mother taught you well, it seems. Indeed they are—but only when used injudiciously. If prepared with care and in due proportion, each plant that grows here has its virtue: of aiding sleep, of easing pain, of lending vitality to the body, of healing. The keys are knowledge and control. You must learn each plant’s secrets and carefully regulate its use if you are to achieve the result you desire.” He took another sip of his drink. “But I did not bring you here to discourse on herbology, though I shall be happy to continue your instruction in that area if you wish, as time permits. I wished to speak of your visit to the humans’ village yesterday.”

Halfwise’s eyes lowered. “I didn’t mean to worry anybody. Was it wrong for me to go there?”

“Not at all,” his uncle demurred. “A trifle unusual, perhaps, and the effect may be—well, that remains to be seen. You should, however, inform someone of where you are going the next time. As secluded and well guarded as our valley is, there are occasional dangers. I would rather you did not leave the Tower again without an escort.”

“Adrovic and Chelle were with me,” Halfwise protested. “And I did tell someone. I told Mikail I was going to visit the humans and he said it was all right.”

“Ah yes, so he informed me. Forgive me. Nevertheless, take care in the future that your intentions are known. We do not wish to lose track of you. You are important to us, Piet, though you may not realize it.” Tyaar took one of his nephew’s hands and held it between his own. Looking into his eyes, he smiled warmly. “Now. Tell me of your visit to the humans.”

Reassured that his uncle was not angry with him, Halfwise readily poured out the tale of his experiences the previous day. Tyaar listened with attention, interrupting only twice with questions. One of these was, “By which Door did you leave the Tower?”

“The one we came in,” Halfwise answered. “The one with the rockshaper with the fancy clothes. I even remembered how to make it open,” he added proudly.

Tyaar raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes. I remembered how Eylar sent to the rockshaper, so I did, and he opened it for me.”

Both eyebrows went up and Tyaar seemed about to ask another question, but he checked himself and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I see. Go on, Piet.”

The second question concerned the drink that had been served at the feast. “Oh, that was good,” Halfwise said enthusiastically. “It was called amberwine. Have you ever had any, uncle? It’s tingly and cold, only it makes you feel warm. I liked it.”

“Indeed,” his uncle said with amusement. “Enough to have several cups of it, I fancy.”

Halfwise frowned with concentration. “I think so. I don’t remember.”

Tyaar laughed. “Well, that is hardly unusual. What did you do then?”

Halfwise continued with a description of the entertainment, and how he had taught the humans the festal line dance. “It was wonderful!” he said, his face glowing with remembered joy. “We went all around the village and everybody danced. It was just like the Festival of Flowers. Then finally we stopped because I got too tired to dance any more, and Mikail and Twillor came to take me home. I was sorry to leave because the humans were so nice, only I was sleepy, so it was good they came then. I got to fly on Twillor’s bird. That was fun. I’d like to do that again sometime.”

“Perhaps you shall. Well. You had quite a busy day then, Piet,” Tyaar said with a smile. “An exhausting one, too, I am sure.” He reached over and touched his nephew’s forehead with one hand.

“Yes,” Halfwise answered. “I was so sleepy that Longshanks and Bugdance had to carry me to our room.” He yawned. “Oh, I feel sleepy now.”

“Perhaps you have not fully recovered from last night after all,” Tyaar suggested. “That is the way of it sometimes. One thinks oneself fully restored by a night’s sleep, but later in the day the weariness will come on again.”

Halfwise felt another yawn coming on. “Maybe I should go back to the room,” he began.

“No need. Lie down here and sleep a little, if you wish. No one will disturb us.” His uncle’s hand on his shoulder guided Halfwise gently but irresistibly down among the silken cushions. His eyelids drooped as sleep crept up on him. **Sleep, Piet,** came Tyaar’s mind-voice through the fog of drowsiness. **Have no fear. I shall awaken you if there is need. Trust me, Piet.**

**Yes.** Halfwise looked up into the smiling face above him, framed by green leaves, and managed an answering smile before his eyes closed completely and he surrendered to oblivion.

The lord of Tower Mountain sat quietly for awhile, sipping his drink and contemplating his nephew’s sleeping form. In repose Halfwise’s face was even more open and childlike, with that sweet, trusting smile lingering on his lips. At last Tyaar sighed and set down the cup. “Power, nephew,” he murmured. “Power is like poison. It must be carefully controlled lest it prove the ruin of all. First, knowledge—then control.” He reached out and gently brushed away a few stray locks of sandy hair from the young elf’s forehead. Then his long hands closed on his nephew’s temples. The blond head bent, the ice-blue eyes were veiled, the high-boned face stilled with concentration. There was silence in the garden for a long time.

 

Halfwise drifted gradually up out of sleep and felt the softness of a bed beneath him, a silken coverlet over him. He stirred and his eyes blinked open. His brow furrowed in confusion. For some reason he expected to see leaves above him, but the only leaves he saw were the embroidered ones on the canopy over his head. But hadn’t he—

“Well now, young’un, you sure had a good sleep,” came Longshanks’ voice. “You hungry? It’s almost time for dinner.” Halfwise sat up. His friend was sitting cross-legged on his own bed, sewing a fringe on a pair of leather boots. The plains elf set his work aside and stretched out his long legs.

“How did I get here?” Halfwise asked in bewilderment.

“Bugdance and me carried you,” Longshanks replied, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “After you came in on that big bird, remember?”

“Yes, but…” Halfwise trailed off. He thought he remembered something about getting up—(gone)—about his uncle—(gone)—about a garden of poisonous plants… Every time he tried to grasp a memory, it dissolved, as a dream will upon waking. Perhaps he had been dreaming, then. But why would he dream about a garden of poisonous plants? That image, at least, remained in his mind.

“You ready for some food?” Longshanks asked. “Your brother asked us all to come have dinner with him. I wasn’t sure you’d wake up in time, but I think we’ll still be able to make it if you can get dressed quick. ’Less you want to sleep some more.”

“No, I’m awake.” Halfwise pushed back the bedclothes with an odd feeling of _déjà vu_. He looked over at Longshanks. “Did I sleep all day?”

“You sure did.” The plains elf chuckled. “Must have been some party you had last night.”

“Uh-huh.” Halfwise decided he must have been dreaming. Longshanks wouldn’t tell him something that wasn’t so. Dismissing the dream from his mind for the moment, he got out of bed and began to dress for Mikail’s dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The friends begin to encounter the darker and more dangerous side of Tower Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is the main reason this work is rated "mature." The party scene especially may contain triggers for those sensitive to Non-Con (and possibly "Underage," though that's always a problematic concept with elves).

“How about this?” Peysol’s blond head emerged from the depths of a carved wooden chest. He held up a short, full robe of shiny black material splashed with bright colors.

“Let me see.” Heartseeker hopped off the smaller chest he was sitting on, one of many scattered and stacked about the large storeroom, and trotted over to inspect the garment. He ran an appreciative hand over the sleek silk and fine embroidery. “Nice. What’s this bird on the back? At least, I think it’s a bird.” He looked doubtfully at the feathered creature’s toothed mouth and clawed wings.

“It’s a lizard-bird,” the wardrobe master informed him. “Haven’t you ever seen one? Well, actually, I haven’t either for a long time.” He laughed. “And I never saw one colored like this. They were usually blue-gray or brown, as I remember.” He stroked the red, orange, and gold embroidery with one finger, his blue eyes thoughtful. Then he shook out the robe and extended it to Heartseeker. “Shall we try it on?”

The small elf had been invited to Beliel’s dinner party that evening by both Kiriel and Doleera. Neither had told him much about what to expect, but he gathered it would be a high-class affair. Not wanting to appear in the same clothes he had worn for the banquet, Heartseeker had sought out the wardrobe master. He found Peysol in his workroom, sketching designs for his latest project, but the blond elf was more than happy to lay aside his wax tray and stylus for a little while and come help Heartseeker dig through the clothes chests. Now Peysol waited as Heartseeker peeled off his fur-trimmed leather vest, then helped the small elf into the silken robe.

“There, I thought so,” he said with satisfaction. “The shoulders are a good fit, and three-quarter length sleeves come out just about right on you. Hold out your arms.” Heartseeker did so. The deep embroidered border of each voluminous sleeve came just short of his wrist. Peysol stepped back to study the effect. After a moment he nodded. “Not perfect, but the best that could be hoped for under the circumstances. Perhaps next time I’ll have enough warning that I can make you one of your own.”

“How does it fasten?” Heartseeker asked, looking down at himself dubiously. He saw no lacings or hooks along the decorated front of the garment.

“There’s a sash that goes with it,” Peysol informed him. He went back over to the chest and began rummaging in it again.

“Is that all?”

Peysol chuckled. “It’s a party robe, Heartseeker. It’s supposed to come off easily.”

“Oh.” Heartseeker considered this for a moment, then turned to face the blond elf, hands on hips. “That reminds me, Peysol. Just what is going on with Kiriel and Doleera?”

Peysol glanced up innocently. “Going on? What do you mean?”

Heartseeker regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Just that every time I start getting—er—intimate with one of those two, we get interrupted. And since I seem to remember _you_ doing the interrupting at least once, I’ll bet you know something about it.”

Peysol grinned. “Funny you should put it that way.”

“Huh?” When the wardrobe master did not continue, Heartseeker took a step toward him. “Peysol—”

“Ah, here’s that sash!” Peysol made a dive into the chest, drew out a rolled-up band of bright fabric and tossed it at Heartseeker. The small elf caught it and unrolled it; then he pulled it taut between his hands like a strangling cord. Thus armed, he advanced threateningly on Peysol.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

The blond elf threw up his hands in mock dismay. “Tch! Bested with my own weapons! Mindar would be ashamed of me. Very well … if either of those two lovely ladies questions me, I shall simply say I was in fear of my life. The fact is they have a wager going.”

“A wager?” Heartseeker frowned. “On—me?”

Peysol nodded. “The first one to get you into her sleep-furs wins. So they’ve been ‘interrupting’ each other … with the aid of helpful friends, of course.” He smiled beatifically.

“But that’s—that’s—” the small elf sputtered, his face reddening. “I mean, I thought they were—attracted—”

“Oh, they are!” Peysol said quickly. “They wouldn’t have bothered with the wager if they weren’t. Actually you can flatter yourself a bit. Sometimes I think Doleera will join with anything on two legs—” He paused as if on the edge of adding something more, but deciding against it, then went on, “—but Kiriel is more particular.”

“Oh, really?” Heartseeker fumed, balling the sash in his hands. “Well, she can just be particular about somebody else, then. I’m not going to—”

“Heartseeker, please!” Peysol closed the chest with a thump, came over and laid a hand on Heartseeker’s shoulder. “You must understand the way we feel about joining here. I don’t know how matters stand in Outsider tribes—”

“In my tribe we didn’t play games with our hearts!” the small hunter responded hotly, jerking away.

Peysol folded his arms and nodded. “That’s it precisely. We do. That’s all this is—a game. An amusement, no more.” Noting Heartseeker’s stricken expression, he went on quickly, “That’s not to say we don’t have lovematings and even the occasional lifemating. But to keep to one mate forever and ever…” He shook his head. “‘Forever’ is a very long time in Tower Mountain. With that much time at our disposal, you may believe we value our diversions highly. The pursuit of pleasure is one of the most intricate and endlessly fascinating games there is.” He smiled. “Each of those ladies plays it very well, I might add. I’m sure you could learn a lot from either of them. Or both.” He cocked his head consideringly. “That may be what they have in mind.”

“The party, you mean?”

Peysol nodded. “A truce, I’d say, possibly an alliance.” He chuckled. “Or it could simply be that neither was going to let the other get away with having you to herself for the evening.”

Heartseeker was still frowning. “I’m not sure I should go to this party after all.”

“Oh, I think you should,” Peysol encouraged him. “I think it will help you understand what I’ve just told you. And perhaps you’ll be able to—shall we say—feel out both of your ladies and make a choice of your own. Now that you know what the game is, there’s no reason you shouldn’t play too. Think of it as a learning experience.”

“I guess.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, why don’t you put that sash to its proper use and let me check the hem on your robe?”

 

On their way down the Grand Stair, Bugdance and Vallaree paused for awhile on one of its many ornamented balconies. Almost reflexively, the jungle elf hopped up onto the balustrade and perched there, one brown hand grasping the stone webwork that partly screened the landing from the many-eights’ drop beyond. “Y’know, Vallaree,” he opined, his eyes wide and innocent, “I don’t think your father likes me.”

The dancer giggled. “Oh, Father! Sometimes I think he doesn’t like anybody.” Her posture stiffened and her pretty face set into a fair imitation of Eylar’s habitual stern expression. “He’s been that way about everyone I’ve ever lovemated with.” She sank down gracefully on the bench below Bugdance’s perch and tilted her head back to look at him. “Mother likes you.”

Bugdance grinned down at her between his knees. “Yeah, I like your mother, too.”

At first he had been daunted by the quietness that surrounded Vayree, accented rather than broken by the shush-click of her loom, the faint chiming of her many bracelets as she worked, and the soft music of the kitar played by her friend Reevirah. The jungle elf’s normal volubility had been almost completely subdued. But the master weaver soon put him at ease with her gentle manner and interested questions about his travels in the world outside. Before long he was chattering away as freely as he did with her daughter. He even ventured to tease her about the moons it must take to weave her chestnut hair into the elaborate basket style she affected. “Not so long as that,” she answered, smiling. “I can usually get Iys to do it up for me in half a day or so—after Eylar has gone and taken it down.” Her smile deepened and touched her brown eyes with loving laughter.

When Bugdance and Vallaree finally took their leave, Vayree reached up to pat his cheek. “Come again soon. You are a breath of fresh air in this musty old place.” Her eyes meeting his held a trace of sadness.

“Musty!” he exclaimed in mock indignation. “Old, maybe … festooned with history—” He gestured grandiosely at the figured tapestries that covered the walls of the chamber. “—but with beauty like yours to grace it, dear lady—musty? Never!” He took her hand and bowed over it with a flourish. He was more than rewarded by seeing the laugh return to her eyes.

At that moment Eylar had arrived. The stern hawkrider seemed less than pleased by his lifemate’s company. His daughter had made hurried excuses, to which he responded with chill courtesy, before whisking Bugdance out of the room. They had fled down the Grand Stair hand in hand, waiting until they were out of earshot to explode into laughter. It was in the aftermath of that explosion that they had stopped on the balcony to rest.

“We shouldn’t laugh at Father,” Vallaree said contritely. “He and Mother—they’re one of the few real lifematings left in the Tower.”

“Really?” Bugdance rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That rare, huh?” He bent over to look into Vallaree’s face upside-down. “You got any ambitions to get lifemated, shimmerbird?”

She shrugged elaborately. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

“Me neither,” he agreed. He bounded sideways, caught the ornamental trellis and swarmed up it. Holding on with one hand and both feet, he flung out his other arm dramatically. “Made for lovemates, that’s me!”

“Are you going to make me chase you again?” Vallaree floated lightly up until the two of them were face to face. She reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. “Got you.”

“Wrong! I’ve got you!” His free arm snaked out and pulled her to him. She gave a little shriek that turned into a pleased giggle as he nuzzled her neck, then worked his way up to her cheek. Her slender arms went around his neck while her fingers explored his curly hair and traced the curve of one long ear. He laughed softly, his breath warm on her face. “You ever start getting ambitious, pretty bird,” he murmured, his lips tickling her cheek, “you give me a call, okay?”

Just then a loud, scornful voice broke in on them. “What have we got here? Why, it’s Vallaree and her savage.”

The dancer whirled, though she did not break Bugdance’s hold on her and kept one of her arms around his shoulders. “Go away, Vaynyar,” she said crossly. “And take that winesack with you.”

Lounging in the archway that opened from the Stair onto the corridor beyond was a male elf with dark blond hair and craggy features. His garb was black, heavily embroidered with silver and trimmed with white fur. The sneer on his face looked very much at home there. Another elf stood a little behind him, one with straight, shoulder-length, mouse-brown hair framing a round, eager face. This second elf had a wineskin dangling from one hand. From the flush overlying his pale complexion and the owlish way he blinked at the two on the balcony, he had no doubt been sampling its contents extensively.

The first elf hooked his thumbs into his belt and sauntered out onto the landing. “Is that any way to talk to your cousin, Vallaree? I think this Outsider is a bad influence on you. I think Malra and I should take him away. It’s only my familial duty. Since your brother doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it…”

“Nalkor minds his own business,” Vallaree retorted.

“Of course. Nalkor _has_ his own business with the golden dancer. He hasn’t any time for your little games.” Vaynyar stepped closer and leered up at Vallaree. “Tell me, pretty cousin, is it exciting, joining with a savage?” he whispered huskily. “Does it thrill you? Is it something I should try, perhaps?” His golden eyes shifted to Bugdance and regarded him speculatively.

Bugdance could feel Vallaree trembling with outrage. “Stop it! Go away! Leave us alone!”

Vaynyar shook his head in exaggerated concern. “What? Leave my cousin alone with a barbarian Outsider? I couldn’t possibly do that. Could I, Malra?”

The round-faced elf shook his head emphatically. “Uh-uh. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Not at all.” The black-clad elf’s hand whipped up, snagged Vallaree’s ankle and jerked sharply. Her concentration broken, the dancer fell into his arms. Vaynyar grabbed hold of her, laughing. “Come down, little cousin. We’ll find you a better lover than your savage.”

_Savage, is it?_ Bugdance thought in fury. He was normally a peaceable elf. This swaggering fellow’s verbal taunts did not bother him much; he found them unoriginal, and except for the obvious malice behind them, far less effective than the insults he habitually traded with Heartseeker. But manhandling Vallaree was going too far. _I’ll give you ‘savage,’ snake-face!_ With an earsplitting howl he launched himself from the trellis straight at Vaynyar’s head, hands outstretched. The Tower elf managed to duck, but he was startled enough to let go of Vallaree, who quickly twisted away. Bugdance landed on his hands and curled into a somersault. Bounding to his feet, he whirled to face Vaynyar. For a moment he wished he hadn’t. Now that he was on a level with him, he could see that the other elf was both taller and heavier than he was.

But Vaynyar had evidently not expected such a quick recovery. He took a step backward, his expression wary. Bugdance felt a surge of glee. Perhaps he could take his “savage” act further. He dropped into a crouch, his face contorted into a snarl, his hands curled into menacing claws, and growled low in his throat. He took a couple of prowling steps toward Vaynyar, who once more backed away. He heard Vallaree’s bewildered voice. “Bugdance, what are you doing?” Then, “Bugdance, look out!”

The warning came a heartbeat too late. Intent on his act, the jungle elf had forgotten he had another foe behind him. Something soft and heavy struck the side of his head—Malra’s wineskin. It didn’t hurt, but it sent him staggering. Before he could regain his balance, he was tackled from behind and thrown to the floor. By the time he recovered his breath, Malra was kneeling on his back, pinning him down.

“Good work, Malra, you caught it. Oh yes, fierce, isn’t it?” Vaynyar taunted. “Just like a little animal. Going to rip my throat out, were you?” Bugdance saw shiny black boots in front of his face. A hand grabbed his curly hair and jerked his head up. Vaynyar’s glittering eyes bored into his.

“Vaynyar, stop it!” Vallaree pleaded. “Malra, let him up!”

**It doesn’t do any good to beg and plead, shimmerbird,** Bugdance locksent to her. **That’s what they want to hear. It only encourages them.** He focused on Vaynyar again. “I wouldn’t think of ripping your throat out,” he said in a conversational tone. “Slime is bad for my digestion.” Malra made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup. Vaynyar scowled. “Actually,” Bugdance went on, “I was waiting for the ‘jungle savage’ bit to make you have an accident in your breeches. Then your smell would be bearable enough for me to get within an easy jump of you so I could—urk!” Vaynyar had grabbed the strands of beads around his neck and twisted them, half strangling him.

“We definitely have to teach this creature better manners. Malra, get off him—but keep his hands out of my face, will you?” The weight on Bugdance’s back vanished and he was hauled to his feet by the front of his shirt. His arms were pinned behind him. “Now, there are some things you need to learn if you’re going to live in Tower Mountain, savage,” Vaynyar sneered, glaring down at Bugdance. “The first lesson is that you show respect to your betters.”

The jungle elf’s lip curled. “I always do.”

**Bugdance!** came Vallaree’s alarmed sending. **Don’t keep needling him! He’ll—**

**Don’t worry, Vallaree. It’s like I told you—you can’t knuckle under to these types. They—** His sending broke off as Vaynyar shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. The blond elf’s golden eyes were so furious that Bugdance was sure he was going to get hit next. Instead Vaynyar’s grip relaxed slightly and a cruel smile curved his full lips. Bugdance suddenly found himself wishing he had taken Vallaree’s advice.

“So you think you’re my better, do you, Outsider?” Vaynyar purred. “Well, I’ll tell you something. The only elves in the Tower who are my betters are the Declared. Do you think you’re that good? Maybe you’d like to try out for the Declared. Cousin Vallaree did, but she didn’t make it. There are lots of tests to pass if you want to become Declared, aren’t there, cousin?” Vallaree did not speak. Bugdance remembered that slight edge in her voice when he asked her if she was Declared, and suddenly felt that he would cheerfully have strangled Vaynyar if his hands were free. “Lots of tests,” Vaynyar repeated. “And the first test—is to see if you can fly!” Bugdance’s feet were kicked out from under him. A knee connected with his jaw and he saw stars. “Grab his feet, Malra.” Hands clamped on his wrists and ankles. He was lifted and carried toward—the edge?

“Vaynyar, don’t!” Vallaree screamed as Bugdance began to struggle. “Stop it! I won’t let you—”

“Malra, keep her occupied.” Bugdance’s ankles were released, leaving only the grip on his wrists. As his head cleared, he found himself looking out into the vast space of the Great Hall. There was nothing between him and the far wall but empty air. Below him…

The jungle elf’s stomach lurched and he swallowed, his eyes going wide. Looking up at the gigantic vortex of the Grand Stair was dizzying enough. Looking down at it was eight times worse—especially when there was nothing below your feet but the floor of the Great Hall, and that was very far away. Instinctively his hands twisted in Vaynyar’s grip, seeking a hold. It was no good. His wrists were being held too tightly. “Do you want me to let go? Is that it?” the Tower elf mocked. “Maybe he can fly after all. Shall we see?”

Bugdance looked up at his tormentor. “Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t.” Vaynyar wouldn’t really drop him, would he? Not on purpose. Elves didn’t kill each other just for the fun of it, or out of spite. But looking into his enemy’s sneering face and glittering golden eyes, Bugdance was suddenly not so sure. Beneath the swagger he read a deeper cruelty and callousness than he had ever seen in an elf before. If sufficiently provoked, Vaynyar would drop him. And he would not be sorry for it afterwards, either.

The Tower elf leaned farther over the balustrade, letting Bugdance dangle lower. Bugdance heard Vallaree shriek again, but could not see her. He tried to send to her and found her mind blocked, already occupied with sending to someone else. Was she calling for help? Not a bad idea, but whoever she was calling might not get here in time. There must be something he could do. He glanced down again, trying to ignore that terrifying drop. By looking straight down and shifting his eyes as far sideways as they could go, he could just glimpse the rail of the balcony behind him. Vertical bars—good. He’d have one chance. If he didn’t make it, well … he just hoped they wouldn’t let Halfwise see the remains.

Vaynyar lowered him a bit more. “Had enough, savage? Are you going to fly away?” Bugdance kicked frantically, partly to keep his tormentor interested and partly to build up momentum. “Or are you trying to walk on air?” Vaynyar inquired sweetly. He let Bugdance sag a handspan more.

_Now._

The jungle elf brought his legs up to his chest, then drove them back. He felt his feet slip between the bars of the balcony and breathed a quick prayer of thanks to the High Ones. _That’s the thing about these ground-bound elves—they always forget the feet._ Catching hold with his ankles, he jerked down.

_“Yaaaah!”_

When Vaynyar came sailing over the balustrade, Bugdance knew a moment of sheer panic. He had meant to break the other elf’s grip, not drag him over the edge. He had not realized Vaynyar was leaning so far over the rail. If the extra weight jarred loose his ankle-hold, they would both fall. But when the jerk came, though it felt as if his arms and legs had nearly been yanked out of their sockets, he managed to hang on.

_Great, Miki. You’re both alive,_ Bugdance thought, _for the moment. Now what are you going to do?_ He had turned the tables on his opponent, but their present position was, if anything, more uncomfortable than the last one. Unencumbered, he could easily have swung back up onto the balcony. As it was he was stuck, unable to pull either himself or his unwilling passenger up. It didn’t help to have his beads dangling in his face, either. Another turn of the Stair lay below them, but even that would not be a comfortable jump—five or six elf-lengths at least from Vaynyar’s swinging feet. For himself, he might have taken the risk, but… He looked down at Vaynyar. The black-clad elf was still clutching Bugdance’s wrists, even more tightly than before. His face had gone pasty with terror and his golden eyes showed white all the way around.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope for that _you_ can fly,” Bugdance remarked. Vaynyar snarled at him. “I didn’t think so. You wouldn’t be nearly breaking my wrists if you could. Ease up a little, will you? Let me grab hold of you.” Vaynyar’s response was to tighten his grasp. Bugdance winced. “Not the trusting type, huh?” Nevertheless he managed to twist his hands far enough to be able to get a grip on his erstwhile tormentor.

“You’ll pay for this, savage. Malra!” Vaynyar bawled. “Get down here!” To Bugdance’s relief, the round-faced elf came floating over the rail as lightly as a feather on the breeze. At least they had somebody who could fly. Two somebodies, in fact.

**Vallaree?** he sent.

**Bugdance! Are you all right?**

**I’m fine, shimmerbird, or I will be as soon as I can get rid of this extra weight. Do you want to help our floating friend? He doesn’t look as if he’s too steady in the air.** Bugdance supposed Malra’s erratic flight was another effect of the contents of the wineskin.

He felt Vallaree’s mental shudder of revulsion. **I don’t want to touch him.**

Bugdance sighed. **Okay. Can you reach my feet, then? I could use some help holding on.** A moment later her slender hands closed around his ankles. **Thanks, shimmerbird.**

**Nalkor’s coming. He’ll help you get back up.** So that was who she had sent for.

The dark-haired hawkrider arrived just as Malra was trying to get a grip on Vaynyar, somewhat hampered by the fact that he was still clutching the wineskin. Nalkor immediately vaulted over the rail and took charge. “Get your shoulder under his, Malra, and hold on to him. He won’t be able to grip by himself. I’ll take the other side. That’s right. If you can extend your levitation to him as well, that will help. All right, Vaynyar, you can let go now. We’ve got you. Curse you, let go!”

It took some extra persuasion to get the blond elf to loosen his grip on Bugdance. From Vaynyar’s stunned expression just before his hands came free, the jungle elf deduced that Nalkor had used a locksending of considerable force. As the two gliders carried the limp Vaynyar up over the railing, Bugdance massaged his sore wrists gratefully.

After a few moments Nalkor reappeared. “Could you use a hand up?”

“Thanks.” Bugdance took the glider’s proffered hands and was lifted back onto the landing. Vallaree immediately flew to him.

“Bugdance, are you all right? Oh, I was so frightened! I thought he would drop you!”

“I’m okay, shimmerbird. Just let me sit down for a moment.” Now that the danger was over, Bugdance found himself trembling. He sank down on the bench and let Vallaree put her arms around him. He glanced over at Vaynyar. The black-clad elf was sitting down too, being given a drink from the wineskin by Malra.

Nalkor surveyed the four of them for a moment, then strode over to Vaynyar and Malra. “All right, just what has been going on here?” the Declared rapped out, folding his arms and glaring at the two of them.

“It was only a joke, Nalkor,” Malra whined. “Vaynyar wasn’t really going to drop him, were you, Vayn?” Vaynyar said nothing.

“I should hope not,” said Nalkor. “But in any case I do not find the joke amusing. Not when it involves my sister, and especially not when it involves my lord’s guest in the Tower. Do you wish him to hear of this?”

Vaynyar looked up at that, a glint in his golden eyes. “Haven’t you heard, Nalkor?” he said softly, his lip curling. “It’s open season on savages.”

The Declared’s brown eyes went wide and a look of consternation passed over his face. Then his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened. “I don’t care what you’ve heard, Vaynyar. If I hear of you mistreating my sister or her lovemate again, you’ll answer to me. Do you truly wish to pit your skills against mine?” Again Vaynyar was silent. “All right,” Nalkor said at last. “Malra, take him someplace where I won’t have to look at him for awhile.” Vaynyar got up, shaking off Malra’s hand on his arm, and slouched away as insouciantly as he could manage, with his friend trailing behind him.

When they were gone, Nalkor came back over to Vallaree and Bugdance, his face troubled. “Are you hurt?” he asked Bugdance.

“Not much. A few bruises, maybe, and I’m going to have some sore muscles for awhile. Is there a healer handy?”

Nalkor and Vallaree exchanged a glance. “I’m afraid not,” the Declared said.

“I have some ointment Reevirah made for me to use when I’ve been practicing too hard,” Vallaree offered. “Would you like to try that?”

Bugdance grinned at her. “If you’ll rub it on, shimmerbird.”

“You two will be all right, then?” Nalkor asked. “I need to talk to Twillor.”

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks for your help.”

“A matter of honor,” Nalkor answered quietly. “I am Declared. It is part of my duty to my lord that I keep order in his Tower and safeguard the lives of his people. Take care of him, Valli.” With that he stepped quickly from the bench to the balustrade and into the air, then went gliding up out of sight.

“Interesting family you’ve got,” Bugdance commented. He slid an arm around Vallaree’s waist and pulled her close. “But I’ve got the prettiest one of the bunch right here. D’you want to go try some of that ointment?” Vallaree nodded. The two of them rose and started down the stairs. But Bugdance noted that neither then nor during what followed did the troubled look ever quite leave her eyes.

 

On another part of the Stair, Longshanks was heading up to see Twillor and Airwolf. As Airwolf had predicted, the plains elf had begun to learn his way around the Tower and could usually find a place he had been to several times before. But there were a multitude of openings off the Grand Stair. It was easy to choose the wrong one, especially when your mind was occupied with something else and the doorways looked much the same.

Right now Longshanks was trying to puzzle out what it was that bothered him about Halfwise ever since his friend’s escapade in the human village. Whatever it was, it was subtle, nothing anyone would notice who did not know him well. But it seemed to Longshanks that in the days since the incident, Halfwise was more often confused, troubled, as if he was worried about something, though when questioned he denied there was anything wrong. Halfwise had always been pretty easy to confuse, of course, but he had been getting better before they came to this cursed mountain.

Longshanks sighed. Growing up was always tough. Maybe it was no wonder that in this sheltered place, with no dangers or enemies demanding alertness, his friend might slip back into childlikeness and dependence. Maybe he had better steel himself and talk to Mikail about it. Longshanks and the dancer had had a long and serious conversation after the dinner Mikail invited them to, most of it about Halfwise. Reluctantly the plains elf had come to accept, if not fully to understand, the rapport that had grown between Piet and Mikail in the short time they had been together. Perhaps between the two of them, Longshanks and Mikail could figure out what was wrong.

Preoccupied with these disquieting thoughts, Longshanks glimpsed spread wings above a doorway and turned his steps that way. He walked only a short distance down the corridor beyond before he realized his mistake. That beaded curtain strung across the passage should not be there. The hall Twillor’s eyrie was on had a knot-woven one, Nalkor’s work. This must be the wrong level. Longshanks was about to retrace his steps when a voice from beyond the bead curtain halted him in his tracks.

“I’m sorry, Jand. Oh, please listen! I—I don’t want—” The voice was not one Longshanks knew. What arrested him was the note of anguished pleading in it. Pain and—fear?

Another voice, deeper, smoother, unctuous. “Don’t want to? But of course you want to, Winken beloved. You wish to please me, do you not? And it will be such fun.”

Cautiously Longshanks stepped up to the bead curtain and peered through, taking care not to touch the hanging and rattle the beads. Two elves stood in the hallway beyond, dimly lit by the glowmoss that illuminated most Tower corridors. The smaller of the two, a slight elf with dark brown hair to his shoulders whom Longshanks would have judged a boy if he hadn’t known better, was backed against the wall. The taller elf stood in front of him, one hand resting on the wall beside the smaller elf, the bent fingers of the other caressing his cheek. Jewels flashed on his hands and were twined in his long black hair. Longshanks recognized him as Jand, one of the Declared whom he had seen infrequently at practice sessions. He had taken an instant dislike to the black-haired glider and now he had an inkling of why.

The smaller elf twisted his head away from Jand’s caress. “No,” he moaned. The Declared caught hold of his chin and forced Winken to look at him.

“No, it won’t be fun?” he purred, leaning closer. “Or no, you don’t wish to please me?”

Winken’s blue eyes were wide and frightened. “Of course I want to please you, Jand.” Jand smiled. “It’s only that—”

“Then you will come tonight.”

The slight elf’s expression was like that of a bird mesmerized by a snake. “Maybe,” he whispered, almost too low to be heard.

Jand’s smile grew broader. His jeweled hand toyed with the youth’s dark locks, then ran slowly down his exposed neck and shoulder. Winken’s eyes closed and he whimpered softly. Longshanks felt like gagging. Not because both participants in the scene were male: he would have been equally revolted had they been of opposite sexes. What sickened him was the predatory gleam in Jand’s eyes, the cruelty of the smile curving his full lips as he savored his victim’s distress. A part of Longshanks wanted to burst through the bead curtain, accost the gloating glider and wipe that smirk off his face with fists if he had to. But the more cautious side of him realized challenging Jand would do no good. The Declared had some kind of hold over the youth, that was clear. However emotionally satisfying it might be to punch Jand in the mouth, it would not solve anything. No, what he should do, Longshanks decided, was speak to Twillor about what he had seen. The flight leader, if anyone, would be in a position to call Jand down.

Or possibly Lord Tyaar?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, Longshanks found himself rejecting it. _Now why should that be, Myek?_ he asked himself. The lord of Tower Mountain should be the one most concerned if his Declared were behaving in such a fashion. They were his oathbound; their conduct reflected on him. Surely he would take steps against the offender if that conduct was dishonorable.

Longshanks sighed inwardly. He supposed the fact was that he was jealous of Tyaar as he had been of Mikail. Probably he should bring it out in the open and talk things over with the Tower Lord as he had with his nephew. In the meantime, though, he would speak to Twillor first. He had no wish to offend the flight leader by going over his head. Besides, if Twillor could take care of the matter quietly, so much the better. No sense raising a big stink if it could be avoided.

Longshanks started to draw away from the curtain, then paused. He couldn’t just walk off and leave poor Winken pinned to the wall. If he could do nothing else, at least he might be able to break up this little interview. Soundlessly he stepped back from the curtain and crept up the hallway for a short distance. Then he came strolling down it again, deliberately letting his leather-shod feet scuff on the stone floor. He pushed the bead curtain aside with a rattle. To his satisfaction he found that the glider had drawn back from the youth and was looking in Longshanks’ direction with annoyance. Longshanks halted, pushed back his cap a little and scratched his head. “’Scuse me,” he drawled, “I seem to be lost. Can either of you folks tell me where Twillor’s eyrie is?” When neither elf answered immediately, he peered at the two of them. “Say, I’m not breakin’ in on a private conversation, am I?”

“Oh no!” Winken piped up. “I was just leaving. I have to practice tonight, Jand!” The slim youth darted past Longshanks and out through the bead curtain. The plains elf looked after him with feigned amazement and scratched his head again.

“Excitable little fella, huh?” he remarked, turning back to the glider. “Jand, is it? I think I’ve seen you at training sessions a couple times, haven’t I? I was looking for Twillor’s place, but I guess I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

Jand eyed him suspiciously, but managed a slightly condescending smile as he answered, “I expect you did, beloved. Twillor is one level up. Come, let me show you.”

_“Beloved”?_ Longshanks thought in revulsion. _When the moons do a circle dance!_ He forcibly kept himself from jerking away when Jand sauntered over and laid a hand on his arm. He let the Declared steer him back out through the bead curtain and onto the Grand Stair.

“Keep going up for another full turn of the Stair,” Jand said, pointing. “Twillor is on the level directly above this one.”

Longshanks nodded. “Got it. Thanks.”

“My pleasure, beloved.” Jand smiled and gave the plains elf a pat on the rear. Longshanks bounded up the Stair as if he’d been stung. He could hear the glider’s low chuckle behind him. More than ever he felt like rearranging Jand’s smirking face. With difficulty he fought down his anger and hurried on up the Stair, scrubbing at the seat of his breeches.

He reached Twillor’s level at last and passed through the archway atop which a sculpted falcon spread stone wings. As he neared the knotwork hanging he heard voices beyond it. _High Ones, not again!_ he thought, coming to a halt. Was this to be his day for breaking in on intimate scenes? One of the voices he recognized as Airwolf’s.

“Come again soon.” The words were simple, but Longshanks would not have believed the blunt, outspoken glider to be capable of such tenderness.

“When I can.” A female voice, loving also but touched with sadness. “Oh, Airwolf—”

Airwolf’s voice again, muffled a little as if his words were murmured into soft hair. “Don’t worry, curly-bird. It won’t be much longer, I promise. Then we can—” Abruptly he broke off, then called out sharply, “Who’s there?”

“It’s just me, Airwolf.” Longshanks pushed aside the knotwork hanging. The chestnut-haired glider stood outside Twillor’s eyrie. With him was a tall elfin female with red-gold curls and blue eyes in a pretty, pointed face. Something about the lines of her face looked vaguely familiar, but Longshanks knew he had not seen her before. There was something odd about her dress, too. It took him a moment to realize what it was. Over her close-fitting russet bodysuit, the red-haired elf-maid wore a linen tunic very much like those of the human servants. Her blue eyes were apprehensive as she looked at Longshanks.

“It’s all right, Chenir,” said Airwolf. “He’s a friend. He won’t say anything.” He fixed his silver-gray eyes on the plains elf.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Longshanks answered the unspoken question. “But why—”

Airwolf held up a hand. “Not now. Maybe later. For the moment, just accept that this has to be a secret, all right?”

“All right,” Longshanks assented, though his mind was full of questions. It was obvious that Airwolf and Chenir were lovemates, but why should they have to hide it? What could possibly be wrong about it? Who had any right to object?

“I have to go.” Chenir touched Airwolf’s hand and they exchanged a speaking look. Longshanks caught the glint of tears in Chenir’s blue eyes as she passed him.

Twillor came through the knotwork hanging just as Chenir reached it. The flight leader gave her a swift glance, then deliberately turned his head away as if to say, _I didn’t see a thing._ In so doing he caught sight of Longshanks and halted, then crossed glances with Airwolf. Perhaps a locksending passed between the Declared and his protégé as well. So Twillor knew about the lovemating too. Longshanks guessed it would be pretty hard to keep it from him when he and Airwolf shared quarters. But the flight leader was looking the other way.

Twillor beckoned to both of them. “Come inside.” Airwolf and Longshanks followed him through the doorway into the chambers beyond. As Airwolf let the embroidered door-hanging fall behind them, the plains elf glanced quickly around. He saw no trace of Chenir’s presence, unless it was the tray on the stone shelf that ran along one side of the room, bearing a pitcher and glasses. There was not so much as a cushion out of place. She and Airwolf were being extremely cautious.

Twillor crossed to where the tray was set and began to pour a pale gold liquid into the glasses. “Did you come for a particular reason, Longshanks?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Well, Airwolf said something about going down to the troll forges today,” Longshanks answered. “But I wanted to ask you about Flitterleaf too.”

“The Preserver?” The flame-haired elf shook his head. “I have been able to discover nothing about it. Are you sure it came into the Mountain with you?”

“Well, I can’t really be sure,” Longshanks admitted. “But the last I saw of it, the day we came, it was riding in Halfwise’s pack same as usual. ’Course, I can see it getting curious and crawling out to have a look at this place.”

“Especially so,” Twillor commented, walking back to the other two with a glass in each hand, “since there are elves here whom it would remember from before the Sundering.”

Longshanks blinked. “Flitterleaf’s that old?”

The flight leader nodded. “Indeed—older, in fact. The Preservers arrived with the High Ones. They are as immortal as we, and they do not breed. Furthermore, their memories are excellent within certain limits. I have no doubt that Flitterleaf would remember me, for instance, despite the fact that I have not seen a Preserver since the Sundering.”

Longshanks took the glass Twillor extended to him and sipped at the drink, a sweetish fruit juice, almost automatically. “Prairie fires! Halfwise never said anything about that!”

Airwolf’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Did you ask him?”

“No,” the plains elf admitted.

“Have you mentioned the Preserver to anyone else?” Twillor inquired.

“Only Tyaar, when we first came,” Longshanks answered. “That’s when we noticed it was missing, when Halfwise was introducing everybody. Tyaar said he’d find it. After that I guess we forgot about it for awhile. What with being shown around the Tower and all, we had a lot of other things on our minds. But after what happened to Nosey, Heartseeker and I started getting worried. Flitterleaf’s kind of a pest sometimes, but Halfwise’s fond of it. I’d hate for anything to happen to the bug.”

Twillor sighed. “I shall continue to make inquiries. But if no one has seen it by now…” He let the sentence trail off and turned his hand palm up. “It is a pity,” he continued, half to himself. “A Preserver in Tower Mountain, after all this time, might stir things up considerably.” He raised an eyebrow in Airwolf’s direction.

The chestnut-haired glider did not seem impressed. “Do you want to head down to the forges?” he asked Longshanks.

“In a moment. There’s something else I think you should know, Twillor.” Longshanks proceeded to describe the scene he had witness between Jand and Winken. By the time he finished, Airwolf’s nostrils were flaring and his silver eyes flashing with anger. But Twillor only sighed again and shook his head, though there was a grim set to his mouth.

“There is really very little I can do,” he admitted. “I command the Declared only when they are on duty. What they do in their leisure time is not under my control.” He grimaced. “And Jand has never been one to seek anyone’s approval but his own.”

_What about Tyaar’s?_ Longshanks wondered. Perhaps the lord of Tower Mountain was the person to complain to after all.

Before he could make this suggestion to Twillor, the flight leader’s head came up and he glanced toward the doorway. “Come in, Nalkor,” he called. Longshanks was startled; he had heard no footsteps outside. But then, he had noticed that Mikail’s friend had an unusually silent walk, and of course the glider might not have been walking at all. The door-hanging was drawn aside and Nalkor stepped in. His expression was worried.

“Twillor, I need to talk to you.” The glance he gave Airwolf and Longshanks added, _Alone,_ though he did not say it aloud.

“We’d better be getting on to the forges,” Airwolf said quickly.

Longshanks set down his glass on a nearby ledge. “See you later, Twillor.” The flight leader nodded. Airwolf and Longshanks went out, all the while aware of Nalkor’s troubled brown eyes on them.

It was a long walk down to the troll forges, from the highest of the inhabited levels to the foot of the Grand Stair, with an additional descent once the two elves reached ground level. Not that Longshanks was surprised. Though his own contact with trolls was limited to a couple of brief encounters in his travels with his three friends, Heartseeker knew a good deal about them. His former tribe had traded with a group of them for weapons, jewelry, and other metalwork. The small elf had informed Longshanks that trolls habitually lived deep underground, shunning the sunlight. Longshanks figured they would feel right at home in Tower Mountain. In fact, he was surprised he had not encountered any of the trolls till now. He asked Airwolf about it as they walked down the Stair.

“There aren’t many of them,” Airwolf told him, “three hands at most. And they keep to their own caverns.” Longshanks nodded. That fit with what Heartseeker had told him about trolls, too: though they might trade with other races, they did not mingle with them. That they could also be brutal and treacherous he knew from Halfwise’s account of the sack of the Hidden Valley as well as from Heartseeker’s tales.

“Should we watch our step down there?” he asked Airwolf.

The glider gave him a sidelong glance. “If this were any other troll warren, I’d say yes, definitely. Here … no, it’s not necessary. These particular trolls are quite subdued.” He laughed shortly. “I suppose that should please me.” Longshanks raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “I was born in captivity,” Airwolf explained. “My parents were enslaved by trolls. We escaped when I was grown. We got separated by a flash flood. I ended up here when Nalkor fished me out of the river—he was on wide patrol that day. I don’t know what happened to my parents. Anyhow, I’ve got little reason to love trolls. But this group is—well, tame.”

“Why’s that?”

Airwolf shrugged. “Various reasons. Twillor says this one family of trolls has been with the Tower elves since the founding of the Tower. There aren’t a lot of them. And whatever else you may say about trolls, they’re nothing if not practical. They know where their best interests lie. As long as they behave themselves, they know they’ll be fed, protected, and kept occupied.”

_And if they don’t?_ Longshanks wondered, but Airwolf did not seem inclined to discuss the subject any longer. In any case, they were nearing the end of their descent.

The main troll forge was a large rough-hewn cavern, lit mostly by fires and a few iron lamps. It smelled of smoke and sulfur and trolls, and echoed with the clang of hammers on anvils. Airwolf paused for a moment at the entrance, looking around. Then he went over to the nearest troll, a burly black-bearded fellow seated at a low table. The troll was using a rag to rub oil on various bits of metal, the function of which Longshanks could not make out. “Blacklock, where’s Bitteredge?”

The troll grunted and stabbed a thick finger toward a curtained alcove not far away. “He’s with Mindar.”

Airwolf grimaced. “That could take moons. I’d better see if I can interrupt them. Wait here, Longshanks. I shouldn’t be long.” The glider crossed the cavern and ducked behind the burn-scarred leather curtain. Longshanks waited. For awhile he watched Blacklock work, but as the wait stretched longer he became bored with this and wandered off to have a look around the rest of the cavern. Perhaps half a dozen trolls were scattered about the forge, all occupied with various tasks. Most did not even look up at the elf as he passed them.

At last his eye was caught by a red flare in a dark corner of the cavern. An iron furnace stood there; the broad troll shape silhouetted by the glare had evidently just dumped a new load of fuel on the fire. As the troll stumped away, Longshanks spotted another figure crouched next to the furnace, pumping a large bellows. It was a good deal smaller than the other trolls. A troll child? The plains elf had never seen one of those. Curious, he strolled in its direction.

The stooped figure working the bellows did not look at all childlike. It did look like a troll; short and squat, it had a drooping nose adorned with several large warts, big ears, a wide mouth, heavy brows. It was bald and beardless, whether naturally so or by design Longshanks could not tell. If it spent much time at this task, hair might be a drawback. It wore only a loincloth and its skin was grimy with soot and sweat.

Longshanks moved closer. “Interestin’ job?” he asked dryly. The bellows-worker turned its face toward him. The plains elf stepped back a pace, for the eyes fixed on him were the dead eyes of a mindless creature. No spark of intelligence lay within those pale, watery orbs, only the flickering shadow of—was it pain? The creature blinked and the impression was gone. It turned back to the forge. As it did so, its feet shifted slightly. A faint rattle drew Longshanks’ attention. Looking down, he saw that an iron manacle encircled the creature’s ankle. It was sunk into the flesh as if it had been there a long time. A heavy chain led from it to a ring set in the floor near the furnace. Longshanks felt a stirring of anger. If there was one thing he hated, it was to see anything tied up or caged—even a sorry creature like this.

The other troll was approaching with another bucket of fuel. The plains elf caught his eye and pointed to the bellows-worker. “Who’s this?” he demanded.

The troll glanced briefly at the creature, then turned to the furnace with his load. “That is Forge,” he grunted.

“Well, why’s he chained up like that?”

The troll dumped the fuel onto the fire, then looked over his shoulder at Longshanks. “He disobeyed.” With that he hefted his bucket and trudged away.

_Disobeyed?_ Longshanks thought incredulously. _That poor critter doesn’t look like it has enough brains to disobey anything!_ He was about to follow the troll and question him further, but at that moment he received a sending from Airwolf.

**Longshanks, come on over here.** He glanced up and saw the chestnut-haired glider standing outside the curtained alcove, beckoning to him. With Airwolf were a troll with a bald crown and a wispy gray beard, and another elf, one clad in black and dark red, with black shoulder-length hair confined by a white headband. “Sorry it took so long,” Airwolf apologized as Longshanks came up to the group. “I got roped into the discussion these two were having. Get ’em started on weapons and nobody can stop ’em. Mindar, this is Longshanks. Longshanks, this is Mindar. He’s the weapons master of the Tower.”

The black-haired elf inclined his head and extended a callus-hardened hand. Longshanks took it. “Pleased to meet you, Mindar.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the weapons master replied, gripping Longshanks’ hand firmly and meeting his eyes with a straightforward blue gaze. “Airwolf has been telling me about your workouts with the Declared. I would like to examine that throwing weapon of yours sometime, if I might.”

“The bolas? Sure. I haven’t got ’em with me right now, but if you want to drop in next time we’re having practice, or maybe come by our room, I’ll be glad to show ’em to you.”

“I shall do that. But I believe you have business with Bitteredge.”

The gray-bearded troll extended a sheathed knife to Longshanks. “You told me how you lost your knife when you were attacked by Tyaar’s Chosen,” Airwolf explained, “so I had Bitteredge make you a new one. There’s no one in the Tower to equal him as a weapons maker.”

Longshanks took the knife and drew it from its leather sheath. The brightmetal blade glittered in the firelight. The balance was perfect, and the haft of polished horn fit comfortably into his hand. He looked up at Airwolf and grinned. “Hey, thanks!”

The glider smiled back. “Don’t mention it.”

Longshanks turned to Bitteredge. “You do nice work.”

The troll waved a hand dismissively. “A trifle, a trifle,” he rumbled, though the plains elf could tell he was pleased by the compliment. “No challenge at all. Have you shown him your sword, Airwolf? Now, that was a pretty piece of work and no mistake.”

Longshanks had indeed been shown the curved brightmetal blade with its guard in the shape of a winged wolf’s head, keen enough to wound the wind, as they would have said in his own tribe. He whistled appreciatively. “You made that?” The admiration in his tone made Bitteredge swell with pride.

“He made it,” Airwolf confirmed, “and Mindar’s been teaching me how to use it.”

“Airwolf has been an apt pupil,” the weapons master commented. “Strong, good reflexes. A bit undisciplined—” He cocked an eyebrow at the glider. “—but we’re working on that.” He turned a speculative gaze on Longshanks. “If you would care to be lessoned—in knife fighting, perhaps—”

The plains elf looked doubtful. “I dunno, Mindar. I’m more of a hunter than a fighter, of you know what I mean.”

Mindar nodded. “I do.”

“Heartseeker, now—he’s a scrapper.” Longshanks turned to Airwolf. “Say, do you think it’d be possible to get a new sword for him too? And Bugdance lost his knife the same time I did.”

Airwolf nodded emphatically. “Shouldn’t be any problem. Bitteredge?”

“Indeed, indeed,” the smith replied eagerly. “Size? Style? Something along the lines of yours?” he asked Airwolf.

“Well, Heartseeker’s old one was a straight blade,” Longshanks said, “about this long.” He held out his hands about six handspans apart. “We’ve still got the sheath for it, if it’ll help.”

The troll nodded sagely. “A shortsword, then. Very good. And another knife? No trouble at all. I should have them ready within an eightday.”

“That’d be real good. Thanks.”

Airwolf shrugged. “It’s the least we can do to make up for the—um—rude reception you got when you arrived here. And you shouldn’t be weaponless, any of you.” The last was said in a lower tone, as if half to himself. Longshanks glanced at him sharply but, suddenly aware of Mindar’s continued presence, did not question his words. Though he was inclined to like the weapons master, he was beginning to wonder how much he should trust anyone in this mountain. Mentally he added Airwolf’s comment to the growing collection of disturbing small puzzles in the back of his mind. Many more of them, he thought grimly, and he was going to start demanding straight answers from somebody: Airwolf, or Twillor, or Mikail. Or possibly Lord Tyaar himself.

Puzzles like that creature chained to the forge. Longshanks recalled its crouching form as he and Airwolf began climbing the stairs again to the upper levels. As the picture came to his mind, he realized something about it that sent a shiver up his spine.

Trolls were green. Bitteredge, Blacklock, all the trolls he had seen in the forge or elsewhere, all the ones he had ever heard of had that greenish tint to their skin. But not Forge. Under the thick layer of soot and grime lay the pallid hue of skin untouched by the sun for eights-of-eights: the same coloring most Tower elves had.

Who—or what—was that unfortunate creature? And what—or whom—had it disobeyed?

 

Halfwise sat cross-legged on his bed and looked at the flute in his hands. It was a beautiful thing, made of pale golden wood. Every fingerbreadth of it, save for the polished ovals around the mouthpiece and fingerholes, was covered with delicate sprays of leaves and flowers: a treeshaper’s work, he could tell. Mikail had given the instrument to him this morning. The dancer had a rehearsal today and could not stay, but he had stopped by on the way down to the practice rooms to leave the gift with his brother. “I had almost forgotten about this,” he told Halfwise, “till I mentioned to Sharai that I wanted to get you a flute and she asked if I still had Xylene’s. Xylene … used to be in the dance troupe. But she doesn’t play anymore and I think she’d like you to have it.”

Halfwise had spent the better part of the day admiring his present, turning it over and over in his hands and studying the decoration. The work was so detailed and exact that he could tell just which kinds of plants were depicted on it. It was like holding a garden in his hands…

(…a garden of poisonous plants…)

Halfwise shook his head. There was that image again, the one he could not get rid of no matter how hard he tried to put it out of his mind. It must have been a dream. It was silly. Why would anyone want to plant a garden like that? But there was the picture floating around in his head: winding paths rimmed with nightshade and wolfsbane and fireflower, a trellis twined with morning-glory and sleep-forever. It was not connected to anything else. It was just there, and it bothered him.

Well, hadn’t Mikail said something about that? “Your music comes from your soul, Piet. If you are troubled about something, play. It is your pathway to your inner self.” Halfwise was not sure what his brother meant, but he did feel troubled about the strange image of the garden … and the way there seemed to be a cloud over his senses … how it was harder to connect things… In any case, Mikail had given him the flute so he could play it, not just to look at.

Halfwise raised the flute to his lips. The first few phrases were halting, experimental, as he discovered the voice of the instrument and the notes his fingers could draw from it. The wooden flute had a mellower tone and a different pattern of holes than Senya’s reed flute. Halfwise had to laugh at some of the funny sounds he made. But it was not long before melodies began to take shape under his moving fingers.

He played the garden of poisonous plants first, which was a strange and disturbing melody indeed. It made him think of that other garden, though, the one Mikail had taken him to, so he played that: the apple garden, and the memories of his father’s city, and the dance he and Mikail had made together. He smiled as he played the dance. Gradually the melody shifted to another dance, the one he had shared with the humans. The laughter and giddy joy of it took hold of him and swept him up so that he was no longer aware of what he played, only of the love and laughter and his spirit soaring free, embracing everyone and everything, feeling the pulse of the Mountain itself, the tingle of magic running through it—oh, strong! And strongest of all right here. He could almost touch that tickle in the rock…

Why, there was someone there.

Halfwise paused, lowered the flute and looked around the room, puzzled. He didn’t see anyone—oh. Behind that tapestry, the one with the rabbits playing their ceaseless game of touch-me-touch-you amid spring flowers, someone was hiding. “Won’t you come out?” he called softly. There was no answer to his call, so he tried sending. **Please come out. I won’t hurt you.**

That sparked a response, a half-indignant snort. The tapestry was drawn aside and an elf stepped out from behind it. He was the smallest elf Halfwise had seen since coming to the Tower, save for Airwolf; about Halfwise’s own height, but lean and wiry. He had the short ears and pale skin of a Tower elf, though. Shaggy red hair fell to his hips and sharp gray-blue eyes studied Halfwise warily from under wispy bangs. The elf wore only a loincloth of green leather and a pair of gold armlets on each arm. Halfwise stared at him, head tilted curiously. Then he asked, “Who are you?”

There was a wry twist to the other’s smile as he answered. “You can call me Widget. I know who you are. You’re the one they call ‘Halfwise.’”

Halfwise nodded. “That’s right. But my real name is Piet.”

One of Widget’s eyebrows went up. “You seem rather free with it,” he commented, “unlike your friends. How did you know I was here?”

“I just knew. I felt a tickle in the rock, and there you were.”

Both eyebrows went up this time and the gray-blue eyes widened. “Is that so?” the red-haired elf said, very softly. “Do you often do things like that?”

“Well, I can usually feel magic,” Halfwise answered. “Sometimes other things too.”

“Like what?”

Halfwise shrugged. “Different things. Sometimes—” His expression became vaguely worried. “—sometimes when there’s something wrong, when something bad is going to happen—I know.”

“Mm-hmm. That could be useful,” Widget murmured. “And very dangerous. Tell me, Piet Meiron’s son, how do you like Tower Mountain?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful! It’s so very beautiful, and everyone has been so nice—Mikail and the humans, and Uncle Tyaar—” Halfwise broke off and looked at Widget in puzzlement. “How did you know I was Meiron’s son?” Then his expression grew sheepish. It wasn’t a secret, after all. “I guess somebody told you, didn’t they?”

Widget grinned. “Nobody told me, but I heard it anyway.” His eyes glinted. “I hear lots of things. Not much goes on in the Tower that I don’t find out sooner or later.” He approached Halfwise slowly, arms folded, gazing at him consideringly. “Like the arrival of four mysterious wanderers, one of them the son of Tyaar’s lost brother. Four new pieces in the game, properties unknown. It could throw out everyone’s calculations.”

Halfwise was totally confused. “What do you mean?”

Widget studied his bewildered face and chuckled. “Don’t mind me. I always talk in riddles.” He hopped up on the bed next to Halfwise. “Where did you learn to play like that?” he demanded, pointing at the flute.

“I didn’t learn. I just do it.”

“You ‘just do it,’” Widget repeated. “Like you ‘just knew’ I was here. Or you ‘just know’ something bad will happen.”

“I guess so.”

The small elf shook his head. “You’re a strange one and no mistake. But I think I like you. Do you want to play that thing some more?”

“All right.” Halfwise picked up the flute again and began to play. At first he did not think at all about what he played, just letting melodies flow from his fingertips. After awhile, though, he began to think about what Widget might like to hear. Rock, that was it: the magic-laced rock of Tower Mountain that reminded him so strongly of proud Lord Meiron and his soaring stone city. So he played Meiron, and the rock, and the rockshaper’s joy in its crystalline structure, its dynamic stillness composed of a delicate balance of opposing stresses. When the music came to an end and Halfwise lowered the flute, Widget’s eyes were glistening.

“You are—perceptive,” he whispered. “That was lovely. You play it well. Thank you. I have to go,” he added, hopping off the bed, “but in exchange for the song I’ll give you a piece of advice. Keep your senses open. All is not what it appears to be in Tower Mountain.” He leaned over and tapped Halfwise lightly on the chest. “Listen to what your heart tells you, son of Meiron. Sometimes the heart sees more clearly than the eye.”

Halfwise smiled at him uncertainly. “That’s what Mother always said.”

“Did she? Then she was wise. Take her advice if you won’t take mine.”

“I will. But don’t go!” Halfwise entreated as Widget moved toward the tapestry. “Please—if you know things too—can you—can you tell me about a garden of poisonous plants?”

Widget whirled on him, eyes wide and every muscle tense. “If you’ve been _there_ —” He relaxed a bit as his eyes met Halfwise’s pleading brown ones. “I can tell you nothing about it except that it exists. It’s one of the few places in the Tower I can’t go.” His mouth turned up slightly at the corners. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Well, if you go everywhere … have you seen my Preserver? Its name is Flitterleaf. It came with me from the Hidden Valley, but it’s disappeared. Uncle Tyaar said someone would find it, but no one has.”

The red-haired elf scowled. “Don’t be too sure.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Just this.” Widget pointed a finger at Halfwise. “All is not well in Tower Mountain. There is evil here beneath the beauty you see on the surface. Find the heart of that evil, son of Meiron, and I suspect your Preserver will be there—along with your poison garden. I say again, keep your senses open. Farewell!” He slipped behind the tapestry and was gone. Halfwise stared after him, more confused than ever. Evil? Evil in Tower Mountain? He was not sure he knew what evil felt like. But if it would help him find Flitterleaf…

He concentrated, as he had when Lady Periel had first begun to teach him to feel the magic in shaped trees, when Lord Meiron had guided his son’s small hands over stone his Talent had molded. Halfwise felt the tingle in the stone where Widget had departed. He traced it for a short way before coming upon another tingle. This one had a different flavor, darker— _wrong_ —

Halfwise gasped and his eyes went wide. Something was wrong! Something was dreadfully wrong! Without knowing clearly what he was doing, he sprang from his bed and ran out of the room. Down the corridor he sped, toward the passage that led to the Grand Stair. As he reached it he saw Longshanks entering it at the other end, framed by the arch of the passage. _Wrong!_ an inner voice screamed. _Wrong!_ “No!” Halfwise raced down the passage and threw himself at his lanky friend. The impact hurled them both clear of the arch and onto the landing of the Stair. The sheathed knife Longshanks was carrying flew from his hand and went clattering down the steps.

“Prairie fires!” the plains elf cursed from where he lay sprawled on his back with Halfwise on top of him. “Halfwise, what—” At that moment there was a rumble and a loud crash as the archway collapsed, taking the near end of the passage with it.

Longshanks stared at the cloud of dust and the pile of fallen rock for a moment, frozen. Then he let out a long, shaky breath. “Whee-ew! That was close. Piet, I think you’ve saved us again.” Halfwise clung to him, trembling. Longshanks put his arms around his friend and patted him on the back. “It’s okay now, Halfwise. It’s over. I’m all right. Calm down. No reason to be scared now. You did it again, didn’t you—had one of your feelings?” Halfwise nodded. Longshanks was about to say something encouraging when they heard quick footsteps on the stair above. A few heartbeats later Beliel appeared at the end of the landing. The dark-haired rockshaper stared at the two elves for a moment, eyes narrowed in his pale face, before hurrying forward.

“I heard the crash. Are you injured?”

Longshanks scowled up at him. “We’re okay. Just a few bruises.” Ignoring the hand offered to him, he got to his feet, helping Halfwise up as well. He glanced at the collapsed arch, then back at Beliel. “This kind of thing happen often?”

“Occasionally. Living rock is never completely stable. A weakness, a subtle shift in stress, and—” The rockshaper gestured with one graceful hand. “—crash! It is well that neither of you was underneath it when it came down. My lord would be much distressed if any harm should befall his nephew—or his companion.” There was an uneasy note in Beliel’s smooth voice. _High Ones!_ Longshanks thought in surprise. _He really is shaken up—about something._

Beliel walked over to the collapsed arch and laid slim fingers on the wall beside it. After a moment he nodded. “Yes, a shift in stress,” he confirmed. “But the fall has eased the pressure. There should be no more trouble with it at present.” He glanced at the waist-high pile of rubble blocking the passage. “I shall send for some humans to clear this away. In the meantime, you wish to return to your room, do you not?”

“We were thinking about it.”

Beliel smiled sardonically at them over his shoulder. Then his fingers ran lightly over the smooth wall beside the arch. Longshanks heard Halfwise catch his breath as a section of the wall melted aside, a little more than Beliel’s own height high and about half as wide. The rockshaper stepped into the opening, lengthening it as he went. A curve in the narrow passage he was shaping hid him from view for a short while. Then he reappeared in the corridor beyond the mound of rubble and gave them a mocking bow. A moment later he returned through the passage onto the landing. “At your service, my friends,” he said, indicating the passage with a flourish. “All I have time for at the moment, I fear. I have a party planned this evening and other matters to attend to before then. If you will excuse me?” He swept by them and continued down the Stair.

“Thanks a lot,” Longshanks muttered. He regarded the bypass dubiously for a few moments, then sighed, took Halfwise by the hand and led him through the narrow tunnel into the corridor beyond.

When they got back to their room, the plains elf noted that his friend still wore the half-bewildered, half-scared expression that marked the emotional aftermath of the accident. To distract him, he began, “Say, Halfwise, did you know there’s trolls in Tower Mountain?”

“T-trolls?” Halfwise, who had sat down on his bed again, drew up his knees and looked at Longshanks with wide, frightened eyes.

“Now, it’s nothing to be scared of,” the plains elf soothed. “There’s only a few of ’em, and they’re pretty decent for trolls, far as I can tell. They’ve got a big forge down under the Mountain and they make all kinds of things. I’ll take you down there sometime. I think you’d like watching the smiths.”

Halfwise did not seem to be listening. “Maybe that’s where the evil is,” he half-whispered, staring at the tapestry on the wall.

Longshanks looked over at him, startled. “Evil? What evil?”

Halfwise turned worried brown eyes on him. “Widget says there’s evil in Tower Mountain. He said I should find it.”

“Who in blazes is ‘Widget’?”

“An elf. He came and talked to me while I was playing. He came out from behind the tapestry.” Halfwise pointed. Longshanks strode over to the hanging and drew it aside. There was nothing there but a smooth wall. No one could possibly hide in the fingerbreadth space between it and the tapestry. _High Ones!_ he thought worriedly, running a hand over the cool stone. _Is he starting to dream up imaginary elves now?_ He definitely should talk to Mikail, he decided. Ordinary fears he could deal with, but phantom elves were out of his depth.

He was about to question Halfwise further about the mysterious Widget when Heartseeker came into the room, a bundle of black silk under his arm. “Say, did you know we’ve had a cave-in out there?” the small elf queried, tilting his head toward the door as he set the bundle down on his bed.

“Yeah, we know.” Longshanks proceeded to tell Heartseeker about the accident with the doorway arch. When he finished, Heartseeker didn’t say anything, but he went over to Halfwise and hugged him hard.

After a moment Longshanks gestured toward the bundle. “What’s with the fancy clothes, Heartseeker?”

“I got them from Peysol. I’ve been invited to a party tonight.” The small elf crossed back over to his own bed and began to untie the strip of bright cloth wound around the rest of the bundle. He paused for a moment to pick up an object lying beside it, a sheathed knife. “Oh, and I found this on the stairs coming up. Whose do you suppose it is?”

“Mine. I dropped it,” Longshanks answered. “Airwolf gave it to me today—had the local trolls make it.”

Heartseeker glanced at the knife briefly before handing it to Longshanks. “Nice work.”

“They’ve got a smith down there who specializes in blades,” Longshanks told him. “I’m having him make you a new sword, too.”

“Great!” Heartseeker grinned. “Though I can’t say I’ve missed it much lately.” He unrolled the bundle and held up the robe for his friends’ inspection. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful!” said Halfwise.

Longshanks stared at the small elf solemnly. “I dunno, Heartseeker,” he drawled. “Looks kinda quiet to me.”

Heartseeker snorted and threw a pillow at him. “All right, so it’s a bit gaudy. Peysol says it’s quite the thing for a Tower party. Comes off easily, you know.”

Longshanks quirked an eyebrow at his friend. “Just what kind of a party is this, anyhow?”

Heartseeker shrugged. “A dinner party, Kiriel called it. Her brother’s giving it. She and Doleera both invited me.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Peysol said it would be an educational experience.”

“I’ll bet,” Longshanks said sardonically. Then he added with a touch of concern, “Watch your step, okay?”

“Yes, mother.” Heartseeker ducked just in time as the pillow came flying back at him. Then, straightening, he inquired, “Have you seen my black boots? I have to get dressed. The girls are coming soon to pick me up.”

“They’re in the closet,” Longshanks answered. “Tell you what—I’ll give ’em a shine while you get changed.”

“Thanks.” Heartseeker sat down on the bed and began to unlace his fringed boots while Longshanks rummaged in the closet. Neither of them noticed that Halfwise was staring at the tapestry again, a vaguely worried expression on his face.

 

Despite Peysol’s preparation, Heartseeker did not know what to expect of this “dinner party” of Beliel’s. He guessed that what Beliel meant by a dinner party would be quite different from the dinner Mikail had given for Halfwise and his friends, a quiet, intimate gathering where the only other guest had been Mikail’s friend Nalkor. Heartseeker began to get an inkling of how different Beliel’s party would be when Doleera and Kiriel arrived to pick him up.

Doleera was dressed in a shimmering green silk confection that foamed around her breasts and shoulders and down over her hips, but left her back and sides bare. The skirt fell to the floor in back, but swept open in front to reveal the ruddy-haired hawkrider’s shapely legs. It looked to Heartseeker as if the whole outfit was held together by that one brooch in the front; unpin that and the dress would come apart. It might be a false impression, but somehow he didn’t think so.

Where Doleera’s dress foamed, Kiriel’s clung. From a collar of white fur as soft as swansdown, the neckline plunged almost to her navel and was laced with silver. Elsewhere the blue silk, patterned like the fur of a treecat, sheathed her slim body and arms like a second skin. The skirt was slit to the waist on both sides. There was a touch of silver lacing there too, but not much.

“You two look ravishing,” was the first thing Heartseeker could find to say. He heard a stifled choking noise from behind him. Stealing a glance in that direction, he saw both Longshanks and Halfwise staring. He didn’t blame them one bit. He only wished Bugdance was there. “I’ll see you later,” he told them.

Longshanks nodded and recovered enough to locksend to his friend, **Be good now—and if you can’t be good, be careful,** before the three partygoers left the room.

“We’re running a little late,” Kiriel remarked as they reached the landing of the Grand Stair. Heartseeker noticed that the rubble from the collapsed arch had been cleared away, though the small side tunnel was still there.

“Yes, we’d better fly,” said Doleera.

“But I can’t fly,” Heartseeker objected.

“That’s all right,” the ruddy-haired glider laughed. “We’ll carry you.” The two of them scooped him up in a chair-carry, with one of his arms around the shoulders of each. Heartseeker was careful not to look down as they glided over the balustrade and across the expanse of the Great Hall. The view was stunning enough as it was. It might have been the flight itself that caused his heart to quicken, or the sensation of warm bodies pressed close on either side, the enticing scents wound into soft hair: floral in Doleera’s case, sweetly musky in Kiriel’s.

Their destination was a broad balcony lightly railed with curlicues of stone. Heartseeker recognized Beliel’s style from the pillars of his making he had seen in the Feast Hall. An ornate archway with torches burning brightly on either side opened onto the balcony. Instead of alighting in front of the arch, the two gliders, laughing, sailed straight through into the room beyond. Conversations paused and eyes turned to them as they entered. Heartseeker would have preferred to make a less theatrical entrance, but he was quite literally in the hands of his fair companions.

From the far end of the room, Beliel raised a sardonic eyebrow and lifted a hand in greeting. Their host lounged amid flame-colored silken cushions on a couch that resembled a tilted stone bowl. Several similar couches were placed around the perimeter of the room. Beliel seemed the very picture of careless, elegant grace tonight, his dark hair loosely bound with a rich gold clasp, his slim body sheathed in deep umber silk accented by a full robe of darkly glowing crimson. Gold flashed at his throat and wrists and gleamed from the embroidery of his robe. Here was an elf at ease with the luxury with which he had surrounded himself. Yet Heartseeker thought he detected a brooding quality in the rockshaper’s dark eyes as they glanced at him, and a tightness around his mouth as if something had displeased him.

Kiriel and Doleera glided over to the couch next to Beliel’s, this one piled with cushions of a delicate aquamarine shade, and settled down onto it with Heartseeker snuggled between them. The cushions were so soft the small elf felt as if he were lying on a cloud. The sweetly pungent odor of incense filled the room.

Having acknowledged the latest arrivals, Beliel turned back to the elf with whom he had been conversing. The first thing Heartseeker noticed about this person was the eye-hurting yellow of his tunic and breeches, trimmed and belted with bright blue. Then, as the vividly clad elf looked toward the newcomers, Heartseeker’s breath caught. For a moment he could have sworn that his father, Heartfree, was standing there. But no—this elf was much taller, of course, his waist-length brown hair lightened with streaks of gold. Nevertheless there was a resemblance, especially in the bones of the face and the heavy, dark eyebrows which Heartseeker himself had inherited.

The brown-haired elf was returning Heartseeker’s gaze curiously. He spoke to Beliel, who nodded and gave him a dismissive wave of the hand, then walked over to the couch where Heartseeker and his companions reclined. “Good evening, fair ones both,” he said with a slight bow.

“Good evening, Kela,” Kiriel replied. “Did you just come to bring the wine or are you staying for the party?”

“I have other plans tonight, I’m afraid,” said Kela. “But I thought I might at least make the acquaintance of your young friend.”

“This is Heartseeker,” Doleera said, laying a hand on the small elf’s shoulder. “Heartseeker, this is Kela, master brewer and vintner of the Tower.” Kela’s smile hinted that he accepted her compliment as his due.

The two elves exchanged greetings. Then Heartseeker blurted, “This may sound like a silly question, but—have you got any children, er, Outside?”

“So you noticed the resemblance too,” Kela remarked. “I fear the answer is no.” His face shadowed. “My lifemate died at the Sundering and the child of our Recognition with her. I have no descendants. A chance likeness, I suppose. After all, we are all children of the High Ones, are we not?” Heartseeker nodded. “I would like to become better acquainted with you, however,” Kela went on. “I’m sure you have many interesting tales about your travels Outside.” His tone was casual, but Heartseeker caught a strange, eager gleam in the brewer’s gold-flecked eyes.

“Sure,” he responded.

“Come by my rooms sometime,” Kela invited. “We can sample my latest batch of wine and have a talk. Right now, though, as I mentioned, I have other business. And so do you, I think.” He winked at the three of them. “Have a pleasant evening.” He strolled off, pausing on his way out to exchange greetings with other guests.

A young human woman with long, red-brown hair, wearing very little besides jewelry, came up and set a tray on the decorative openwork shelf molded into the stone couch at Kiriel’s elbow. Heartseeker looked at the girl uneasily. He still was not comfortable around humans. At least this one could not possibly be carrying any weapons. He watched her move on to the next couch, where two female elves lay side by side. As she set down the second tray she carried, the nearer of the two, whose short honey-brown curls were bound with a bejeweled gold circlet, laid a long, slender hand on her arm. “Pretty child,” Heartseeker heard the elf say in a low voice, “come back to us when your duties are done, if you are not bid elsewhere.”

“Yes, Honored One,” the girl said respectfully.

“Oh, Sharai!” the other female exclaimed in a tone of mock reproach. “I thought I’d have you to myself for the evening.” She tossed her head coquettishly.

“Now, Jilleen, you mustn’t be selfish. You shall have as much of me as you wish.” Sharai’s blue-green eyes glinted as she wound one of Jilleen’s light brown curls around her finger. “But this one shall have a share, too. Don’t forget now, child.” She sent the human girl on her way with a pat on her rump. Heartseeker blinked. Could that exchange have meant what he thought it did? No, that was impossible. Elves didn’t—

“Hungry?” Kiriel asked. Heartseeker turned toward the raven-haired maiden, who was holding a platter under his nose.

“Is that fish?” he asked, sniffing. His eyebrows went up. “ _Raw_ fish?”

Doleera laughed. “Come now, don’t tell me our little barbarian has never eaten raw fish before. But I think you’ll find this much different from anything you’ve had Outside. It’s quite delicious. Try some.” She took up one of the morsels on the plate. “Open your mouth.” Heartseeker glanced at her doubtfully, but did as she asked. She was right; it was delicious, flavored with herbs and spiced oils. It was pleasing to the eye as well, each piece decoratively colored and garnished.

While Doleera and Kiriel took turns popping bits of fish into his mouth, Heartseeker had the opportunity to look around the room. Richly colored hangings adorned the walls. The furnishings consisted of several of the cushion-filled stone couches; larger cushions were also strewn about the floor in places. Now that he looked at the couches more closely, Heartseeker could tell Beliel had shaped them. He wondered whether they were a permanent feature of this room or whether the rockshaper had sculpted them especially for the occasion. He suspected the latter. He thought the forms abstract at first, but as he looked longer he began to see suggestions of shapes in them: intertwined bodies, not sharply defined enough to be recognizable as male or female, elf or human; bodies tangled together, writhing in what might be ecstasy or agony or a disturbing combination of the two.

“Where’s Frith, curse him?” The complaint was not overly loud, but it happened to fall into a relative lull in the murmur of conversation. It drew Heartseeker’s attention to a small group of elves standing or sitting on and around a raised platform on one side of the room. The speaker was a male elf with wavy black hair to his waist who sat cross-legged on a pile of cushions, holding a set of pipes in his hands. A second set of cushions between him and the edge of the platform was conspicuously unoccupied.

“Relax, Emerel,” said a willowy female whose costume consisted mostly of multi-colored feathers. A close-fitting cap adorned with a crest of feathers crowned her dark hair. “We aren’t ready to start anyway. Some of the guests haven’t arrived yet.”

“Have a drink while you’re waiting, Davrille?” That was the round-faced elf with straight, mouse-brown hair who seemed to be trying to attract the female’s attention. He held up a wineskin and shook it so that it sloshed.

“Now, Malra, you know I never drink before dancing,” she replied with a teasing glance. “After—as much as you like.”

“And what are you doing … after, Tandeya?” A black-clad elf with dark blond hair and craggy, sensual-looking features moved up behind the second female in the group, a white-blond maiden whose tawny bodysuit was patterned with dark rosettes like those of a jungle cat, and ran his hands down her slim hips. She shrugged elaborately and moved away from him.

“Depends on what everyone else is doing,” she said, giving him a sidelong look from under her bangs. Her face was painted to resemble a cat’s, too.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something fun,” he replied with a leer.

“Let me know when you do, Vaynyar.” She tossed her head and walked over toward Davrille, arms crossed. “Where _is_ Frith? It’s not like him to be late for a performance.” She flopped down on a nearby couch, looking fretful.

“I think he said he had to see Peysol about something,” the feather-clad female replied unconcernedly. “He’ll be here.” Her head turned suddenly, along with quite a few others, as a door-curtain swished aside. A mocking smile came to her lips. “Of course, you could always ask Winken.”

Tandeya’s violet-gray eyes had gone wide; her mouth was a tiny O of surprise and consternation. Heartseeker turned his head to see what she and the others were staring at. “Oh, _curse_ him!” he heard Doleera say, very softly.

Two elves stood in the doorway. The taller of the two glittered so much it was almost painful to look at him. His floor-length, fur-trimmed robe was stiff with gold and silver embroidery. Several bracelets encircled each arm and a variety of necklaces hung around his neck. Still more jewelry was twined in his long black hair.

In sharp contrast to his taller companion, the other elf wore a simple black bodysuit that left one shoulder and arm bare. A single silver chain encircled his waist, another the base of his throat, and a third his slim ankle. He had dark brown hair, curly at the top, falling to his shoulders in the back. He stood a little in front of the taller elf, whose bejeweled hand rested on his shoulder. Heartseeker thought he looked awfully young and a little scared, though he also seemed to enjoy the attention he was getting.

Beliel’s languid voice broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “All right, Jand, I think you’ve made your point. You can come in now.”

The taller elf smiled and sauntered across the floor, steering the young elf along with him. His companion glanced over his shoulder and waved at the group around the platform. “Hi, ’Deya!” he called brightly. “Are you and Davrille dancing?”

Tandeya did not answer, but Jand said smoothly, “They most certainly are, Winken beloved—or at least, so we are promised. Come, let’s find ourselves a comfortable place to watch from.” He led the youth over to a vacant couch and drew him down to lie beside him. Winken smiled nervously around at the other guests.

It was obvious to Heartseeker from everyone’s reaction that Jand had somehow scored a point in one of the intricate games Peysol had mentioned. He glanced at Doleera, but her expression showed no trace of whatever emotion might have prompted that soft exclamation. She only smiled at him and said, “Heartseeker, you haven’t tried any of this wine. It’s Kela’s best.” She reached across him to take a goblet from the tray, letting her arm brush his chest lightly as she did so. Meanwhile he could feel Kiriel’s fingers toying with his hair. He remembered his conversation with the wardrobe master. Peysol said they were attracted…

_Well, two can play at that game,_ he thought. Or three, as the case might be. Heartseeker was not inexperienced in the arts of love and had once had two lovemates at the same time. Sweetberry and Darkriver were soulsisters, of course, who shared everything. Still, when they weren’t furthering their rivalry over him, Kiriel and Doleera seemed friendly enough. He wondered how they would feel about a three-mating. He returned Doleera’s smile and took the wine she offered him. It was indeed excellent. Her emerald eyes met his over the rim of her own cup. They were full of promise, but he was not ready to fall into their trap just yet. He let his gaze drop. While he was pretending to study the depths of his wine cup with great concentration, a chance phrase caught his ear.

Beliel was speaking quietly. “Heightened sensation, you say, Feyhr? How interesting.” Heartseeker looked over at their host, who was holding up an ornate gold flask and gazing at it speculatively. In front of him stood a tall, slim elf in black and silver, with a thin face framed by fine hair as dark as Kiriel’s. Heartseeker had not seen him come in.

“Whom have you chosen for a subject?” the black-haired elf asked in a cool, dry voice.

“I haven’t decided.” Heartseeker thought Beliel’s dark eyes flickered toward him momentarily, but he could not be sure. “We’ll see what seems most convenient when the time comes.”

“You are deplorably unscientific, Beliel. Choose carefully, will you? The herbs are extremely hard to come by.”

The rockshaper only smiled, his eyes half-closed. “You’ll have your results, Feyhr. And we’ll have some fun. Will you stay to watch?”

“Of course.”

Beliel eyed the flask again. “How much?”

“Two fingers should be sufficient.” The rockshaper nodded.

Meanwhile Kiriel had noticed the newcomer. “Hello, Feyhr!” she called out. The black-haired elf turned dark-rimmed silver eyes on her and bent his head in acknowledgment of her greeting.

“Cousin,” he said with a small smile.

A mild commotion at the other end of the room heralded the arrival of a male elf with shaggy light brown hair past his shoulders, who carried a long-necked string instrument under his arm. “Sorry I’m late, everybody,” he called out. He paused and bowed fractionally to Beliel. “Peysol sends his regrets. He finds himself unexpectedly occupied this evening.”

“Oh, what a pity!” Jand exclaimed with just a shade too much dismay in his deep voice. “I was so looking forward to seeing his latest creation. Weren’t you, Winken beloved?”

The newcomer turned astonished blue eyes on Jand and Winken. The younger elf gave him a nervous grin and a wave. “Hi, Frith!”

Frith’s mouth twitched and he looked as if he was about to say something, but just then Emerel spoke up quickly and rather crossly. “Well, now that you’re finally here, why don’t we get started? Everybody else is here, aren’t they?”

“Indeed,” said Beliel. He leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs in front of him. Feyhr had taken up a position beside Beliel’s couch, one elbow resting on the back of it. “By all means begin, Tandeya, whenever you are ready,” the rockshaper said, gesturing toward the dancers.

Heartseeker settled back to watch the dance, wondering as he did so if it would be anything like the story-dance Mikail’s troupe had performed at the banquet. He soon realized that though there might be some similarities, this story was very much simpler. There were only two roles, bird and cat, played by Davrille and Tandeya respectively. Each had her own musical accompaniment: Emerel’s shrill, fluttering pipes gave the bird voice, while Frith’s instrument had a peculiar wailing timbre, accentuated by the way he slid his fingers up and down the strings, that echoed the fluid movements of the cat. It also soon became evident that the whole room, not just the raised platform, was to be the stage for this performance.

The beginning of the dance startled Heartseeker, for the story began at the point he would have expected it to end. He was a hunter and had experienced the thrill of the stalk for himself. But that thrill was not what was evoked in this dance. For a few heartbeats Davrille hung in midair, fluttering, just long enough to create the impression in the minds of her audience of feathered beauty and a freedom unfettered by the pull of the world. Then with a single leap the cat brought her down, and the dance began.

It was a dance of death, this tale of cat and bird, but Heartseeker soon realized it was a dance of joining as well—which he found deeply disturbing. Not because both dancers were female: he lost sight of that fact almost at once, so convincing was the illusion of bird and beast. Tandeya’s slim figure could almost have been a boy’s in any case. The dance itself disquieted him. An eight of times the fluttering bird seemed on the verge of escape. Each time the cat snatched it back, toying with it, proving the escape had been no more than an illusion. Each time the captor held onto its prey longer, fondling it, arousing it, wounding it, savoring its struggles. Each time the prey’s desire to escape at all seemed weaker, its will sapped by those clawed caresses it at once feared and craved. When the end came it was with a single lingering stroke of curled fingers across a soft belly that curved up to meet them, as Davrille’s body bent backward in an arc of pain and fulfillment. Her dark waves of hair trailed on the floor as Tandeya bent to her white throat. Then with a last wail of pipes and strings, the dance was over.

The two dancers, most likely by design, had ended their performance directly in front of Beliel’s couch. After a short pause once the music ended, they rose and bowed to their host, then to the rest of the company. “Well done,” Beliel said as they turned back toward him. His dark eyes gleamed and a smile curved his lips. “A stimulating performance. I compliment you on your choreography, Tandeya, and both of you on your artistry. Come.” He extended a graceful hand to each of them. “I am sure you will welcome the chance to rest for awhile after your efforts. Later in the evening perhaps we shall dance again.” He laughed low in his throat. Davrille laughed also and readily allowed herself to be pulled down on the couch beside him. Tandeya held back for a moment, but the rockshaper’s dark gaze would not be denied. She took his hand and was drawn down to lie at his other side.

“Come on, Beliel, that’s not fair!” Vaynyar protested loudly from the other end of the room. Beliel glanced over at him, eyebrows raised.

“You wish to contest my prizes, Vaynyar?” He slipped an arm behind Tandeya and, grasping her wrists, spread the dancer’s arms wide. “Come and take her, then,” he invited. Vaynyar had evidently had just enough wine to ignore the mockery in Beliel’s tone. He strode across the room and took Tandeya’s hand as it was offered to him. When he tried to pull her to her feet, however, he found that her other wrist had been attached to the couch by a loop of stone. “She doesn’t want to come with you, it seems. What a pity,” Beliel said smoothly. “I fear you will have to seek elsewhere. Why not try your luck with Chimreh over there? I’m sure her teeth are just itching for companionship.” Vaynyar met the rockshaper’s eyes for a moment, then turned away with a snarl and stalked off to the accompaniment of laughter from the other guests.

Kiriel joined in the merriment, then turned to Heartseeker. “What did you think of the dance, Heartseeker?”

“I thought it was very—um—interesting.”

She laughed. “Oh, Heartseeker, you’re so tactful. I found it exciting. Didn’t you? I think you did. You’re flushed. Isn’t he, Doleera?” She stroked Heartseeker’s cheek.

“I believe you’re right,” Doleera agreed. She laid a hand on the small elf’s chest, then let it slide up his shoulder to the base of his throat. She met eyes with Kiriel. “I think we should get this robe off him before he gets any hotter.”

“What a good idea!” Kiriel reached for the knotted sash. Heartseeker reflected that Peysol was quite right about the robe coming off easily. “Better now?” Kiriel murmured in his ear, then nibbled the tip of it gently.

“Much better,” Doleera purred, letting her cool fingers wander slowly down the small elf’s chest toward the lacings of his breeches. Their bodies made small movements against his, silk garments and silken-smooth skin. Their scents tickled his nose. Aroused, he drew them closer, one arm about the waist of each, and let his hands explore soft hair, the curves of shoulder and breast and hip. Kiriel was right. The dance had been exciting, and it was just a story after all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. No one was being victimized here, not he and certainly not his two lovely companions. He relaxed into their caresses, returning them with growing ardor. He wondered with a touch of smugness what happened to the wager if he joined with both of them tonight.

The music had begun again; Frith and Emerel were singing an intricate counterpoint to the accompaniment of Frith’s instrument. Emerel’s voice had taken on a high, flutelike timbre that was like nothing Heartseeker had ever heard before. Underneath the music he heard high-pitched giggles coming from the next couch. Glancing distractedly in that direction, he saw that Sharai and Jilleen had the human serving girl on the couch with them now. Jilleen was tickling her with a feather taken from her hair, while Sharai was removing her jewelry and scanty clothing bit by bit. Heartseeker noted with a mental shrug that all three seemed to be enjoying the process. That was what the game was about, after all, wasn’t it? Enjoyment, pleasure … not pain, no, that wasn’t supposed to be part of it, not for him, but pleasure, oh yes… He felt Doleera take his hand, brush it with her lips, then guide it to the brooch of her dress.

“Beliel, _stop_ it. Don’t—” The note of real protest in Tandeya’s voice brought Heartseeker up out of the daze of pleasure in which he had been sinking.

“I’ll stop when you do as I tell you, Tandeya. Close your eyes and open your mouth. Will you?”

“I will! I will! Oh—”

“Not this moment. When I tell you.”

Heartseeker sat up a little and looked in the direction of Beliel’s couch. Tandeya lay sprawled across it on her back. Beliel lay prone next to her, propped up on one elbow, the other hand poised over her. Davrille had her hands on his shoulders, massaging them gently, and was watching the other girl with interest. Heartseeker was disturbed to note that Tandeya’s wrist was still held to the couch by the stone manacle.

Beliel glanced up at Feyhr, who stood nearby, also watching, and raised two fingers along with a questioning eyebrow. Feyhr nodded. Beliel reached across Tandeya’s supine body and poured a dark liquid from the gold flask into an empty wine cup. He glanced briefly into the cup to check the amount, then held it over Tandeya’s mouth. “Now, Tandeya. Open up.” The girl obeyed, grimacing a little as she swallowed the potion. “That’s right,” the rockshaper crooned. “How long before it takes effect, Feyhr?”

“A short time only,” his cousin replied. “It’s quite fast-acting. See? I believe it’s started already.” Tandeya’s eyes had gone wide and staring. Her breath came in gasps. As they watched, her slim body began to writhe. “She’s feeling her clothing, I think,” Feyhr commented dispassionately.

Beliel grinned. “Indeed? Perhaps we should get it off her, then.” He reached for the lacings of Tandeya’s tawny bodysuit. As his hand brushed her skin she cried out, as if that light touch was too painful or pleasurable to bear. Beliel’s smile grew broader and he deliberately ran his long fingers down the open front of the girl’s garment. Tandeya’s body arched under his caress and she gave another of those abandoned cries. “How very amusing,” Beliel said with a pleased laugh. “And what a saving of time and effort. How little it takes to send you into ecstasies now, eh, Tandeya?” He raised himself up and bent over the girl. “Perhaps I shall have a taste of this potion myself. Not a full dose, of course … just a very little taste.” His mouth came down on hers. Her body bucked again, her heels drumming the edge of the couch. Heartseeker heard murmurs of amusement and approbation from around the room.

After several lingering moments, Beliel raised his head. His dark eyes were half-closed; his tongue ran slowly around his lips. “Oh yes indeed, that’s very nice,” he purred. Gazing down at Tandeya, who was moaning softly and tugging at the stone manacle, he asked, “How long will these effects last, Feyhr?”

The black-haired elf shrugged. “That is one of the things I am attempting to discover.”

“Ah.” Beliel glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the company. “Would anyone else care to try this new potion of Feyhr’s? There’s still a good bit left.” He reached for the flask and held it up.

“What do you think, Winken beloved?” came Jand’s voice. “Wouldn’t you like to try some of this—distilled delight?”

“No! No, really, Jand, I—I don’t think I should—” Winken sounded definitely scared.

“No? Well, some other time, perhaps, when it’s been refined.”

“No other volunteers?” Beliel asked. “Well, Feyhr, it seems we must content ourselves with a single subject this evening.” He put down the flask and bent over Tandeya again. “Watch closely.”

Heartseeker could not see what the rockshaper did this time, but it provoked a wilder cry than ever from Tandeya. The shriek snapped something inside him. Tearing himself away from Doleera and Kiriel, he lurched to his feet. “Stop it!” he cried. “Stop—stop _playing_ with her! It’s disgusting!”

The music came to an abrupt halt as all eyes turned to him. “Why, it’s Kiriel’s little savage,” Beliel said silkily. “Do you have some objection to our amusements, savage?”

“Yes, I do!” Heartseeker said hotly. “You’re using that girl—hurting her—”

Beliel’s eyebrows went up. “Hurting her? What makes you think that? Can’t you see she’s in transports of delight? But perhaps you need proof. Would you care to test this potion? I’m sure my sister and Doleera will be glad to provide the necessary stimulation.”

“No!” Heartseeker backed away from the rockshaper’s dark gaze in sudden terror. As he did so, Beliel’s slim hand dropped to the rim of the couch. The small elf felt the stone floor go soft beneath his foot. A moment later he was trapped as solid rock closed around his ankle.

“Going somewhere, savage? You really mustn’t leave when the party’s just starting. It’s rude.” Beliel rose from his couch and sauntered toward Heartseeker, the gold flask in his hand. He stood over the small elf, gloating. Heartseeker balled his fists and tried to look defiant, but had the feeling he was not succeeding very well. What must be the smell of the stuff in the flask came to his nostrils, bittersweet and penetrating. His stomach heaved. The rockshaper glanced over at Kiriel and Doleera. “Fair ones? He is your guest. What do you think?”

“Oh, let him go, Beliel,” Kiriel said sulkily. “You’ve spoiled everything.”

“Have I? Dear me.” Beliel shook his head in mock dismay. “How careless of me. But it shall be as you wish, dear sister.” He waved his hand negligently. Heartseeker felt the stony grip on his ankle loosen. He pulled his foot free and backed away another few steps. Beliel regarded him with slitted eyes. “If you do not care for the entertainment here, perhaps you had best leave.”

At the moment Heartseeker wanted nothing better. All thoughts of pleasure had been driven from his mind. He spared a thought for Tandeya, but realized he was powerless to do anything to help the girl. He glanced briefly toward her. Vaynyar and Malra had come up and were stroking her with feathers taken from Davrille’s costume, laughing at her shrieks and struggles. The small elf felt suddenly ill. Whirling, he dashed for the nearest curtained doorway and burst through it. Mocking laughter followed him out, Beliel’s leading the rest.

Heartseeker leaned against the wall of the passage outside for several moments, pressing his forehead to the cool stone as he waited for his stomach to settle and his head to clear. Inside he could faintly hear the music begin again. Finally he began to walk down the unfamiliar passage. He had gone only a little way when he heard light footsteps behind him. He wheeled on his pursuer, one hand braced against the wall, but found it was only Winken. The slim youth stood there with Heartseeker’s silk robe dangling from his hands, his expression sheepish. “Um—Doleera asked me to give you this—and show you the way back to your room if you need it—”

Heartseeker was about to say he would find his own way, but suddenly realized that Winken might be just as glad as he was to have an excuse to leave the party. He forced a smile and said, “Yes, now that you mention it, I do. Thanks.” He let the other elf slip the robe around his shoulders and guide him down the hall.

“You’re four levels up and across, aren’t you?” Winken asked. “I think that’s what Peysol told me. He’s my father, you know, Frith’s and mine. He was supposed to be at the party tonight, but he didn’t come after all.” Something in Winken’s voice told Heartseeker the youth had counted on his father’s being there. For protection, maybe?

Winken continued to chatter nervously as the two elves made their way through curving corridors to the Grand Stair, then up it until they reached the landing with the collapsed arch. “I can find my way from here,” Heartseeker told Winken. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome. Um—do me a favor? If Jand comes looking for me, tell him you don’t know where I am, but if Father’s looking, or Frith, tell them I’ll be with Ban, all right?”

“All right.” Winken hurried off down the Stair. Heartseeker walked the short distance to the room he shared with his friends. A lamp still burned inside. Halfwise was asleep in the large bed across the room. Bugdance and Longshanks sat on Bugdance’s bed, nearest to the door, conversing in low tones.

“I thought he was going to drop me, I really did,” Bugdance was saying. “I could be wrong, but—” He broke off as Heartseeker came in and both of them looked in the small elf’s direction. “Hey, Heartseeker! You’re back kind of early, aren’t you? How was the party?” Then he and Longshanks caught sight of Heartseeker’s face.

The plains elf sprang to his feet and helped Heartseeker sit down on the bed. “Prairie fires, Heartseeker! You look like you had a nightmare or something. What’s wrong?”

“He looks sick,” Bugdance said, feeling his smaller friend’s forehead. “Did you have too much wine, short stuff?”

Heartseeker shook his head violently. “No. It wasn’t the wine. It—they—”

Longshanks glanced quickly at Halfwise’s sleeping form, then sent, **What happened, Heartseeker?**

Heartseeker told them, more in images than in words, pouring out the tangle of sensations and emotions that had been Beliel’s party. When he finished, Bugdance looked ill and Longshanks’ face had gone hard. “That does it,” the plains elf said. “I was beginning to think something was rotten in this mountain, and now I’m sure. Something’s got to be done. Tomorrow we’re going to talk to Lord Tyaar.”

 

The four friends went looking for the Lord of Tower Mountain after breakfast the next morning. Heartseeker had been doubtful about whether they should bring Halfwise along, but Longshanks said grimly, “He’s got to find out sometime. Let’s have it all out in the open right now.”

They found Lord Tyaar in the throne room. Peysol was with him, standing beside the throne with a wax tablet in his hands and letting his lord inspect the marks drawn on it. Both elves looked up as the four entered. “Tyaar, we want to talk to you,” Longshanks said bluntly, striding up to the throne with his three friends close behind.

The ancient elf frowned slightly, as if annoyed at their interruption, but said, “Very well. Peysol, these sketches are acceptable with the changes I have discussed. Let me see the finished drawings by tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord.” The wardrobe master paused as if waiting for Tyaar to say something else. When no more was forthcoming he bowed and went out, giving the four a worried look as he went. Lord Tyaar turned to them with eyebrows slightly raised.

“Now. What is it that you desire to speak to me about so urgently?”

Undaunted by the coolness in the Tower Lord’s tone, Longshanks folded his arms and looked Tyaar straight in the eye. “There’s things going on in this place that are wrong. And we want to know why.” He went on to recount what Heartseeker had told them last night about the party, adding in his own encounter with Jand and Winken, and Bugdance’s experience with Vaynyar. Tyaar listened with an expression of grave attention, but displayed neither surprise nor dismay at the plains elf’s recital. The old elf’s apparent calm in the face of his tirade enflamed Longshanks more. “Do you know what goes on in this mountain of yours?” he finished angrily. “Do you know the kind of slime you’ve got for a second-in-command? This whole place is as rotten as moons-old meat, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it!”

The Tower Lord answered calmly, “I? Nothing.” His eyes glinted. “You ask if I know what goes on in Tower Mountain. I know all that passes here— _all_. As for Beliel, he is my trusted councilor and my very dear friend.” He smiled slightly. “I would not dream of interfering with his amusements.”

“You know?” Longshanks was astounded. “You know what goes on, the kind of things he does, and you _let_ him— _what kind of a chief are you?_ ”

Tyaar’s high-boned face went still. “Are you questioning my rule of Tower Mountain?” His voice was quiet, well-modulated as always, but there was a warning hint of ice in it.

“Cursed right I’m questioning it,” Longshanks snapped back. “A chief is supposed to take care of his people. Anyone who lets _that_ kind of thing go on isn’t fit to rule any—”

A black, burning lance of pain shot through the plains elf’s head, cutting off his tirade in mid-word, and sent him sprawling to the stone floor. “I will not brook your insolence, savage.”

As his three friends stood stunned, Longshanks rose slowly and shakily to one knee and glared at the lord of Tower Mountain. “I don’t know what you just did,” he said hoarsely, “but if you think it proves anything, you—” He got no further before another blast of pain slammed him to the ground. But this time the pain did not cease. Instead it worsened with every moment, till each nerve was a searing wire of agony. He felt his body writhe, unable to control it, but at least he was able to keep his teeth clamped down on his screams. He would not give Tyaar the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Tyaar’s mind-voice burned coldly through the pain. **I am Lord of Tower Mountain, savage. All that passes here is at my will and pleasure. You will remember that—or suffer the consequences.**

**You’re—no—lord—of—mine,** Longshanks managed, before a new wave of black fire blocked out his sending.

“No!” The voice was Halfwise’s, horrified. “Stop it! You’re hurting him! Uncle, stop!”

“I am merely disciplining him, nephew,” Tyaar returned coolly. “Insubordination in one’s underlings cannot be tolerated. You will learn that in due time.”

“No!” Halfwise dropped to his knees beside Longshanks, taking the tall elf’s head in his lap and crouching over him as if to shield him from Tyaar’s assault. “He’s my friend. Stop it! Oh, uncle, please stop, you’re hurting him.” Tear-filled brown eyes turned pleadingly on Tyaar. “Oh, please…”

**Curse it, Halfwise, don’t beg! It’s just what he—** A cry finally broke from Longshanks as his sent thoughts were turned to knives and flung back to pierce him.

The look Halfwise gave his uncle was like that of a pet whose much-loved master has suddenly turned around and kicked it. Bugdance and Heartseeker exchanged a look, then simultaneously headed for the throne, intent on mayhem. Tyaar merely glanced in their direction and sent them both reeling with a quick mental slap. **You see?** came his sending to all their minds. **You cannot defy me. You have tasted only the barest fraction of my power. If I wished, I could shatter your friend from within.** He inclined his head toward Longshanks. **Provoke me further and I shall do it.**

Abruptly Tyaar turned away. Longshanks’ taut body relaxed with a gasp. As his vision began to clear he saw Halfwise stooping over him. The uncomprehending pain in his friend’s eyes wrenched at his heart. Halfwise had given his love and trust to his newfound uncle, freely and without reserve. Tyaar had responded by striking out at his nephew’s beloved friends. The act wounded Halfwise to the soul, and the worst of it was that he could not understand why Tyaar had done it. In that moment a bitter hatred for the lord of Tower Mountain awoke in Longshanks, hard and unforgiving; not for what Tyaar had done to him, but because he had hurt Piet and betrayed his trust.

“Take him away,” Tyaar said coldly. Heartseeker and Bugdance rose and went over to Longshanks. They lifted him with as much care as they could, but the movement sent another wave of pain through his abused muscles. Almost gratefully, he passed out. His friends raised his limp body and got one arm over each of their shoulders. Half carrying and half dragging him, they bore him from the throne room, Halfwise trailing behind them. The young elf turned a last look on his uncle before they left, bewildered, hurt, with no hatred in it, but with the beginnings of fear. Tyaar’s ice-blue eyes met his, but they were unreadable, his face closed. If his nephew’s pain awoke any response in him, he gave no outward sign.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The info-dump chapter ... also including plans for escape.

When Longshanks regained consciousness, he found himself lying on something soft, which turned out to be his bed back in the room the four friends shared. The softness beneath him helped a little, but he still ached in every limb. His head hurt too, probably from trying to send through Tyaar’s interference. When he forced his eyes open, he found Bugdance and Heartseeker hovering over him with worried expressions.

“Where’s Halfwise?” he croaked.

Heartseeker put a finger to his lips. “He’s asleep—finally,” the small elf replied softly, inclining his head toward the large bed. Longshanks looked in that direction, trying to move his head as little as possible, and saw Halfwise sprawled across it. The young elf’s face was tearstained, but peaceful now in sleep.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Bugdance whispered. “What did that son of a she-troll do to you, anyway?”

“Well, if he had me trampled by a herd of zwoots, I missed that part, but that’s sure what it feels like.” The plains elf thought for a moment, then continued slowly, “I remember my father’s sister telling a story once about a healer who went crazy. I think his lifemate died or something. Anyway, he started lashing out at his own clan, using his power to hurt instead of heal. Killed four elves before anybody was able to put a stop to it.”

Bugdance looked sick. “You mean he—Tyaar—is a _healer_? A healer gone bad?”

“Looks that way. And a cursed powerful one, too.”

“He said he had the power to—to shatter you from within,” Heartseeker said hesitantly.

“Likely he does.”

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, the three of them heard a soft footstep outside the chamber. The door-hangings parted. Lamplight gleamed golden on his hair, but the slender figure in the doorway was not that of the lord of Tower Mountain. “Mikail,” Heartseeker breathed, relaxing a little.

“What do _you_ want?” Bugdance demanded, scowling.

Tyaar’s elder nephew did not answer. He glanced first at the sleeping Halfwise, then quickly crossed to Longshanks. The plains elf stiffened as cool fingers touched his temples, but almost immediately the pain in his head and body began to recede. “Better now?” Mikail asked quietly after a few moments. Longshanks nodded.

Heartseeker blurted, “You—you’re a healer!”

“Hush!” The dancer held up a warning hand. “Yes. I have trusted you with my deepest secret. Please do not announce it to all of Tower Mountain.” He rose from the edge of Longshanks’ bed and began to prowl the room like a restless cat. He paused by the bed where Halfwise lay sleeping, then turned back to the other three. “You must leave this place, all of you—the sooner the better.”

Longshanks raised himself up on his elbows. “Cursed right.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded Mikail. “And that includes Halfwise.”

Mikail nodded. “Yes, Piet too,” he agreed softly, gazing at his brother. “Piet most of all, perhaps.”

“Oh, sure, I can just see Tyaar allowing that!” Bugdance’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “‘Shade and sweet water, your lordship, it’s been fun, but we’ll be on our way now, and oh yes, we’re taking your nephew with us!’ And he’d just smile and wave goodbye? When the moons turn blue and do a circle dance, he will!”

“I can see him being glad to see the backs of the three of us,” Longshanks added. “For some weird reason I get the feeling he doesn’t like us. But there’s no way he’ll let Halfwise out of his clutches that easy.”

Mikail shook his head. “It would not be that easy for the three of you, either. No one leaves Tower Mountain by its lord’s will.”

“What?” Longshanks sat up, startled. “Prairie fires! You’re all dying by fingerbreadths in this cursed place, you don’t even breed anymore—and he doesn’t want anybody to leave?”

“It fits, though,” Heartseeker said, snapping his fingers. “Think back. Have any of us been offered a chance to go outside, even once, since we’ve been here? The only one who got out for awhile was Halfwise, when he went to visit that human village. And Tyaar wasn’t any too pleased about that.”

Bugdance turned an accusing look on Mikail. “So first you’re saying we’ve got to get out of here, and now you’re telling us we can’t? What’s your game?”

“Escape.” Mikail crossed over and perched on the edge of Longshanks’ bed again. He spoke in a voice so low even keen-eared elves had to strain to hear it. “There are a group of us in Tower Mountain who wish to leave here, to dare the Outside. Airwolf’s coming was the start of it, renewing our hope that there might indeed be elves alive in the world. When you came, with Piet—well, we weren’t sure what to do. But now… We have been plotting for some time to stage an escape: Twillor, Airwolf, I, a few others. But Airwolf is the only one among us who actually knows anything about the Outside as it is now. The rest of us have only dim memories of it. Even Twillor has not been able to learn much from the hawkriders’ forays. We need your help. And you need to get out of Tower Mountain.”

Longshanks nodded slowly. He had been right—Twillor did want out. That explained a lot of those odd turns of phrase and odd looks exchanged between Twillor and Airwolf. “All right. We’re listening. What’s your plan?”

The corner of Mikail’s mouth took a wry twist. “Now is not the best time to speak of our plans. Lord Tyaar knows I am here—”

“He does?” exclaimed Bugdance.

“He sent me to talk to Piet,” the dancer explained. “To ‘talk some sense into him’ was how he put it. I do not think he expected Piet’s reaction to his—‘discipline.’ I came for my own purposes, but he does not know that. I do not think he would have me followed or spied upon, but…” He turned his hand palm up. “I shall arrange a time and place for you to meet with the rest of our conspirators—if you agree to help us, that is.”

“Excuse me for asking,” said Bugdance, “but why should we trust you?”

The dancer sighed. “I understand your doubt, considering what has happened. It is difficult to trust when you have just been betrayed.” His blue eyes met Bugdance’s. “But I have trusted you.”

“With your deepest secret, you said,” Heartseeker remembered. “But what’s so secret about being a h—a you-know-what?” he amended as Mikail glanced at him.

“As far as anyone else knows,” Mikail said quietly, “Lord Tyaar himself is the only healer in Tower Mountain. He is by no means the only one who has ever manifested that Talent. But the others have all died—by some ‘accident’ or other, usually.” He rose and began to pace again, his hands clasped around his elbows. “Burdensome as life has become to me in Tower Mountain, I have no wish to die just yet, by accident or otherwise.”

Longshanks’ eyes narrowed. “‘Accident’…” Abruptly his eyes widened again. “Prairie fires! I _knew_ there was something funny about that business with the doorway arch.”

Mikail whirled on him. “What doorway arch?” he inquired sharply.

“The one onto the Stair right out here. Up and collapsed just as I was coming back to the room. I would’ve been under it if Halfwise hadn’t tackled me and thrown us both clear. He had one of his ‘feelings’ about it coming down.”

Mikail’s face went white. “High Ones! Our time is shorter than I imagined, then. If Lord Tyaar already wants you dead—but he would not have endangered Piet like that.”

“Well, Halfwise came on the scene kind of sudden. But I don’t see how Tyaar could’ve had anything to do with it. He’s not a rockshaper too, is he?”

“No, but—”

“Beliel! That slime-eating rockdung—” Longshanks bit off his exclamation as Mikail motioned to him to lower his voice. On the other bed, Halfwise stirred and moaned.

“L-Longshanks?”

Longshanks got up quickly and went to kneel by the side of Halfwise’s bed. “I’m here, young’un. Don’t worry, I’m all right. Go back to sleep.”

“I—heard you talking…” Halfwise sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I thought I heard—Mikail?” He caught sight of the blond elf and his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mikail!”

The dancer came quickly to his side and took Halfwise in his arms. “It’s all right, little brother. Your friend is well, see? Don’t cry.”

“B-but—Uncle Tyaar, he—he _hurt_ him. He wouldn’t stop hurting him. Why did he hurt my friends?”

Mikail hugged his brother closer, tears forming in his own eyes. “Oh, Piet … I wish I knew. Lord Tyaar was not always as he is now. Once he was much like—like our father, as you have shown him to me in your sendings: strong and proud, but kindly too, and wise. But something happened to him. He had a daughter, and she died—that may have been the start of it. Since then his spirit has darkened, become twisted and cruel. It has affected everyone in the Tower. I have watched it happen, but I could do nothing … I dared not—” Abruptly he broke away from Halfwise and began to pace again, his hand clasping his elbows.

Halfwise looked at him wide-eyed. “At the banquet … I knew there was something wrong when you danced.”

“Yes,” Mikail acknowledged. “I could not hide it from you, my brother, the shadow on my own soul.” Moving to the bedside, he dropped down on one knee in front of Halfwise, taking his hand and looking earnestly into his face. “Please,” he said, “don’t hate Tyaar for what he has done. He has hurt many people, even killed, but somehow I feel that deep inside, it is he who is hurt the worst … maybe beyond healing.”

Halfwise’s brown eyes met his brother’s. “I don’t hate him. How could I hate him? He’s my uncle. I love him. But I wish he didn’t have to hurt people.”

“I too,” Mikail whispered. “If I could have one wish in all the world, it would be to be able to come back here and make him whole again, the uncle I loved—have always loved. But for now—we must leave Tower Mountain, all of us, as soon as we can.” He rose, then leaned over and hugged Halfwise again. “I shall send word to you soon,” he told the others. Then he was gone, with only the faintest stirring of the door-hanging to mark his passing.

 

Word came within a day or two, in the form of an invitation from Mikail for the four friends to attend a rehearsal of his latest piece. Airwolf arrived to fetch them soon after the midday meal. “Are you big on dancing, Airwolf?” Longshanks asked the glider, deadpan, as they descended the Grand Stair.

“It bores me silly,” Airwolf confessed. “But Twillor’s been trying to ‘civilize’ me, so—” He shrugged.

“Oh, is Twillor going to be there?”

“Sure. He’s the composer.”

Longshanks had seen the kitar in the flight leader’s chambers and assumed he played, but he had not realized the full extent of Twillor’s musical abilities. “Didn’t know he could do that.”

Airwolf nodded. “He’s one of the best in the Tower. He and Mikail collaborate quite a bit.”

“Uh-huh.” So they all had good excuses to be there.

When they arrived at the rehearsal hall they heard music sounding faintly from within. Airwolf paused outside the tapestry-hung doorway until the hanging was pushed aside by Nalkor. “Come on in,” the dark-haired hawkrider said. “They haven’t started yet. They’re just warming up.”

The rehearsal hall was a large, high-ceilinged oval room with a raised platform at the far end that served as a stage. There was a lower platform in front and to one side of the stage where the musicians sat. From the performance area the floor sloped up to the rear of the hall and was furnished with rows of padded stone seats. As the four friends followed Nalkor in, they could see a number of dancers onstage, either doing stretching exercises or just standing. Heartseeker spotted Peysol among them. Bugdance nudged him and pointed to the slender brown-haired maiden talking to the wardrobe master. “Hey, there’s Vallaree!” Heartseeker also saw Sharai, Winken and Tandeya among the dancers, as well as several elves he did not know. With a certain amount of cautious relief, he noted that Tandeya did not look any the worse for her ordeal of a few nights ago. She was talking to one of the other dancers, illustrating her points with animated hand gestures. Frith and Emerel were among the musicians. Mikail and Twillor stood side by side listening to the music. The flight leader held up a hand and the musicians stopped playing. “Frith, the third note of that run needs to be a half-tone lower.”

“Sorry, Twillor.” The troubadour picked out a series of notes on his lute, pausing on the third. “Is that it?”

“Yes. Again, please.”

Meanwhile, Mikail noticed the new arrivals and came hurrying up the aisle between the rows of seats. “Hello! I’m glad you were all able to come. We will be starting in a few moments. Twillor is just fixing a wrong note here and there.” The dancer put an arm around Halfwise’s shoulders and guided him toward the front of the hall. “Piet, I am going to put you here, in Lord Tyaar’s chair,” he said with a smile, indicating the large and ornate seat in the middle of the front row. “I want you to watch and listen closely. I based this dance on what you showed me of the Hidden Valley, you see, and I want you to tell me afterwards if I got it right. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“The rest of us will sit in the back where we can get a better overall view—and if I want to explain something to your friends, we won’t disturb the dancers.”

Halfwise looked up at his brother in surprise. “Aren’t _you_ dancing, Mikail?”

Mikail laughed. “Not this time, Piet. In spite of what some people say, I do not construct all of my dances around myself. For this one I am choreographer and director, not dancer. I shall stay modestly behind the scenes and let others take center stage.”

Sharai, who stood near the edge of the stage listening to the music, overheard this remark and snorted. “Modestly! That will be the day!” Mikail raised an eyebrow at her and she grinned. “Listen to this, everybody!” she called out. “Our esteemed director finds himself afflicted with modesty all of a sudden!” Chuckles and snickers broke out among the rest of the troupe, along with a variety of surprised exclamations: “Really?” “I don’t believe it!” “How did that happen?” Mikail turned away to hide a smile, then glanced over at Twillor. The flight leader nodded. Mikail turned back toward the stage and clapped his hands loudly several times.

“All right, everyone, that’s enough,” he called out. “We are ready to begin. I want to see the shape of the whole dance this time, so we will dance it from beginning to end. It will be rough in places, but we won’t worry about that now. I shall try to keep my comments to a minimum and I won’t stop you unless I have to. To your places, please.” The dancers scattered to various openings off the stage, including a couple above floor level. “I will signal you when to begin,” Mikail told the musicians. Then, beckoning to the three Outsiders, he led the way to the rear of the hall, where Airwolf and Nalkor waited. After pausing for a final word to the musicians, Twillor followed.

Mikail seated the three friends side by side in the second to last row, with himself and Twillor directly behind them. Nalkor sat a few seats off to Mikail’s right. Airwolf was on Twillor’s left about the same distance away, lounging in his chair with his feet up on the seat in front of him. The chestnut-haired glider wore a martyred expression. Once they were settled, Mikail sent to the musicians, who began to play. “Now,” the dancer murmured, “we can have our conference. If we keep our voices low, the music will cover them. Anyone watching from concealment will have something else to look at.” He nodded toward the stage, where the dance was beginning.

“Pretty clever,” Longshanks admitted. “But why bother talking at all? Why not send?”

“No! Be very cautious in sending while you are in Tower Mountain. Lord Tyaar, in addition to his other Talents, is extremely sensitive in that regard. If he chooses to attend to it, no sending is hidden from him—none.”

“But a locksending—”

“Even a locksending, if he suspects it is going on.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Keep your voice down!” Airwolf warned.

“It is not impossible,” Mikail went on. “Lord Tyaar is of the Firstborn of the High Ones. His power is very great. And he will not scruple to use it in such a fashion.”

“That is why secrecy is so vitally important to our plans,” Twillor put in. “If even a hint of what we intend should come to Lord Tyaar’s ears and he were to question one of us, none of us, in the end, could withhold the truth from him. That is why we have waited this long to confide in you. You were an unknown quantity. Until your confrontation with Lord Tyaar, we had no way of knowing for sure where your sympathies would lie.”

“Well, I hope there’s no doubt about that now,” Longshanks said bitterly. “How anyone could follow a chief like that—”

“Please!” There was pain in Mikail’s voice. “I understand your anger toward my uncle, Longshanks. But it is as I told Piet. He has not always been as he is now. Once he was a good and kindly lord to all of us, and Tower Mountain was a haven, not a cage.”

“That was the golden time,” Twillor said wistfully, “when the dream was new and alive. We had found our home. Here we would rebuild our lives and renew our powers. In us the High Ones would live again.” He shook his head reminiscently, his gray eyes distant. On the stage dancers whirled jubilantly, celebrating the discovery of a new home. “It was a lovely dream. And for many eights-of-eights it seemed as if the dream had come true for us. We settled here, shaped the Tower to our will, tamed the great hawks, won the love and service of the humans, created beauty and order in the midst of the wilderness. For a time our dream lived and grew. We prospered here in our Mountain. Children were born to us—never many, but there never are among our kind. For all that time Tyaar was our good lord. He ruled us with compassion and wisdom, with his lady beside him.”

“Lady?” Heartseeker asked in surprise. “You mean a lifemate? No one’s ever said a word about Tyaar having a lifemate.”

The flight leader laughed shortly, without humor. “That is not surprising. Lady Tascha’s name is forbidden in Tower Mountain.”

The small elf considered this for a moment. “Did she die?” he asked finally in a soft voice.

“She may be dead for all that we know,” Twillor replied grimly. “She fled the Tower and never returned.”

“Why? What happened to her?”

Twillor did not answer for several moments. His eyes were fixed broodingly on the stage, where Peysol in the role of Lord Meiron led several other dancers in slow procession. Once, twice, four times they circled, hands stretched outward in a gesture of warding, sealing away their refuge from all contact with the outside world. Finally the flight leader shook his head. “Isolation was never the answer. How many times did I say that to Lord Tyaar? How often did he reject my argument, pointing to the peace and prosperity of Tower Mountain that seemed to give the lie to my fears? Yet the dream was dying even as it lived. Our vitality began to wane, our great achievements behind us. Our growth ceased. Children became even rarer among us. There came a time when there were no more, when the youngest of us had seen more turns of the seasons than any of you. We tried to block out our fears in the pursuit of ever more exotic pleasures, but deep inside we could all feel it. We were dying within this mountain, dying, though unable to die.

“Then came what seemed a blessing from the High Ones, a sign of hope and life renewed. After having been lovemated and then lifemated to her for eights upon eights with no fruit of their joining, Tyaar Recognized Tascha and their daughter was born.”

“Wisprian,” Mikail murmured. “My little cousin. So full of life and love—as how should she not be, the darling of every elf in the Tower? All loved her, the symbol of our dream’s rebirth.” His gaze rested on Halfwise as he spoke. The young elf sat motionless in the ornate stone seat at the front of the hall, eyes fixed on the stage. There the dancers wove intricate patterns with their bodies, shaping the air into a vision of a soaring stone city and a grove of living bowers.

“What happened to her?” Heartseeker asked in a voice so soft it was barely audible. “You told Halfwise she—died, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Mikail replied. “It was an accident. She fell from the Grand Stair. Lady Tascha could not reach her in time—did I say she was a healer? The most gifted in the Tower save for Tyaar, and he was elsewhere in the Mountain that day. But I doubt even he could have saved Wisprian. Her injuries were too severe, her body too broken. She died within moments after her mother got there. Poor little cousin … at least she did not suffer very long.”

“Unlike the rest of us,” Twillor said grimly. “Wisprian’s death was the death of Tower Mountain too, the end of the dream. Lord Tyaar was nearly mad with grief for awhile. I think he blamed Tascha for the child’s death, for not being able to save her—”

“No one could have saved her,” Mikail said.

“I believe you,” Twillor replied, “but no one could convince Tyaar of that. I am sure that he felt he could have done something, had he been there, and that Tascha should have been able to do the same. He has never demanded less than perfection from himself or anyone who followed him.”

Longshanks spoke quietly. “It was a terrible thing to happen, I can see that. But it happens to other elves—losing a friend or a mate or a child—and it doesn’t do _that_ to them. It doesn’t turn ’em into monsters.” His jaw set as if in readiness for an attack from Twillor or Mikail, but neither objected to his words.

“To this day none of us have been able to guess why Wisprian’s death had the effect it did,” the flight leader said after a moment. “In fact, for a brief time before she left the Tower I thought that Tascha at least was beginning to accept, to heal. Then all of a sudden she—fell apart.” He spread his hands. “I have never understood it. She was grief-stricken, of course, and perhaps she shared Tyaar’s belief that she should have been able to save their daughter. But by and large she was rational. Then one day she was not. It was as if her spirit had been shattered. She became increasingly unstable until at last she fled the Tower. Her cousin Baz, who was one of the Declared and a hawkrider, set out after her a short time later, but neither of them ever came back.”

Mikail frowned thoughtfully. “Baz’s brother, Foi, went so far as to accuse Tyaar of destroying Tascha, but no one credited his accusations at the time. We thought _he_ had gone crazy. He and Baz were very close and he was devoted to Tascha as well. Then Foi disappeared—”

“Foi is neither here nor there,” Twillor interrupted. “Whether his claims had any basis in fact or not, after Tascha’s departure we came gradually to realize that Tyaar had changed too. His grief-madness soon passed, but he would not allow Tascha’s name to be spoken in his presence. The other changes were subtle at first, hardly to be noticed by anyone who did not know him well.”

“What first aroused my suspicions was when he suddenly became such good friends with Beliel,” Mikail put in. “They had never been close before, but now they were together constantly. There were others who fell out of favor—”

Twillor made a cutting motion with one hand. “I do not think we need to go into the details of intrigue and shifts of power. They were only symptoms of the deeper illness of Tower Mountain, an illness that had its source in our lord’s darkened spirit. And we need not describe that either, for you have seen it for yourselves: the smiling mask concealing the canker within. The warping of a healer’s power into a weapon and a scourge. The—monster who takes pleasure in others’ pain.”

Longshanks nodded somberly. “How long has this been going on?”

Airwolf spoke up unexpectedly. “You won’t believe it when they tell you, Longshanks, so maybe I’d better do it. Twillor had to send it to me before I’d believe him. Two eights-of-eights-of-eights. And then some. Don’t look too thunderstruck, my friend. Someone might be watching.”

“Two eights-of-eights-of-eights?” Longshanks repeated in disbelief. Suppressed outrage colored his quiet voice as he went on, “And no one’s done anything about it?”

“On the contrary,” Twillor replied with a touch of asperity. “Several have tried, either to rebel or to escape. All have failed. The fortunate ones are dead. Others have not been so lucky. The rest of us had no desire to end up like Taywar—or Forge.”

Longshanks swallowed, remembering the wretched creature he had encountered in the trolls’ caverns. “That—was an elf?” he grated.

Twillor nodded. “You have seen him, then. Yes, that was an elf named Byern, one who grew dissatisfied with Tyaar’s rule. He was a jeweler and metalsmith, a friend to the trolls. He plotted with some of them to help him construct an escape tunnel to the Outside. They planned to flee under cover of darkness and form a new enclave elsewhere. In the meantime the Tower would be weakened by the loss of a good many of its metalworkers. Tyaar found out about the plot. His judgment was that since Byern had such an affinity for trolls, it seemed he was hardly an elf any longer. So he—shaped him. And in the caverns he has stayed, a warning to the trolls, and to us, of the consequences of rebellion.”

Airwolf’s eyes were steely. “You never told me about that,” he muttered.

“Did I need to? You had reason enough to hate Tyaar. Though perhaps I should have, if only to demonstrate to you how much we risk if our plan fails, that our fears are not groundless.”

“Be that as it may,” Mikail said quietly, “there were reasons other than fear—or caution, if you will—for our inaction. Love played a part too, and concern for our lord. For a long time we hoped Tyaar’s spirit would heal, that his innate Talent would eventually cleanse itself of its own sickness. But that has not happened. And, too, though he has changed, and in spite of the terrible things he has done, Tyaar is still our lord and our friend. To most of our people, he _is_ the Tower. We have never known a time when he did not rule us. He retains much of what he once was: his power, his nobility, his gift of leadership, even his care of us, twisted though it may be into a jealous possessiveness that will not let a single elf escape his influence, that watches constantly for any sign of dissension or threat to his power. He is still the lord of Tower Mountain to whom we owe loyalty, to whom we swore oath as his Declared. Even now sometimes, when we are alone, I see it in him, the Lord Tyaar that was. I will not say how many turns of anguish I endured before I could even begin to think of leaving him, of betraying him, my second father. And you know best your own struggles with your conscience, Twillor.”

The flight leader’s lips barely moved as he answered. “I do. But the decision has been made. I must betray him if I am to keep faith with the dream we shared.” His gray eyes flashed up at the three wanderers. “Know this. We are not simply running away. If our plan succeeds, if we can escape and survive Outside, perhaps find allies of our own race somewhere out there, we intend to return here one day and liberate those who remain from their prison. We shall open wide the cage that Tower Mountain has become and lead our people to a new beginning. But we cannot do it here. We need room to grow and the freedom to change before we can challenge him. First we must get out.”

“Right,” said Longshanks. “And how are you going to do that? That’s what this meeting is really about, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I did not mean to discourse so long upon Tower Mountain’s history, though I think it is important for you to understand our situation. You have been kept in the dark ever since you came and it is time you learned the truth. But now we must tell you of our plan.

“There are only three ways out of Tower Mountain. Two of them are by the Doors on the main level. The main Door can only be opened by specific people, those who have good reason to pass in and out and whom Tyaar trusts. I am one of those—” The flight leader smiled grimly. “—but that way is too risky. We would all have to gather in the Great Hall, where we would be an easy target for the Declared and Tyaar’s Chosen, those human warriors in his personal service. You had a taste of their fighting skill the day you were captured. We could not get out quickly enough through that narrow tunnel to be able to stay ahead of pursuit. The servants’ Door is even more risky. A guard is stationed there at all times to keep an eye on the humans’ comings and goings, and the Chosen’s barracks are directly outside.”

Heartseeker frowned in puzzlement, remembering the altercation between Tyaar and Shadaln the day Halfwise visited the human village. How _had_ Halfwise got out?

“The third way out is by air,” Twillor went on. “That is the route we shall use. As flight leader of the Declared, I do have advantages. Several of our conspirators are hawkriders, such as Nalkor and myself. I shall not reveal the others’ names to you. One of my concerns all along in developing this plan has been to reveal to the individual conspirators only as much as they needed to know for it to run smoothly. Thus our risk of betrayal is lessened. Even Tyaar cannot pry from the mind of an elf what that elf does not know. I am the only one who knows all of the elves involved in the conspiracy.”

“What if you’re caught?” Longshanks asked. “Could happen to anyone, you know.”

The flight leader flashed a look at him, acknowledging the reminder. “If I were caught, all would become known, it is true. But there is always Taywar’s way out.”

“Taywar?”

“One of the first to rebel against Tyaar,” Mikail explained. “He died by his own hand.”

“Right,” Longshanks murmured. “How about the people who aren’t hawkriders?”

“Those who are gliders, such as Airwolf, can escape through one of the disused eyries under their own power,” Twillor went on. “The others will go with the hawkriders. The birds can carry several passengers if the distance is not too great. Thus all can set forth at the same time, in small groups so that we cannot be attacked all at once and surrounded. We intend only to cross the shield-wall. We hope that will stave off pursuit long enough for us to lose ourselves in the wooded lands hub-back of the Tower.”

“Won’t the other hawkriders chase you?” the plains elf asked. “They’re not all in on the plan, are they?” He could not imagine Jand, for instance, playing a part in this conspiracy.

“They are not. But I have several diversions in mind. If all goes well they will not be able to follow us immediately. Even if they do … I am still first among the hawkriders. If I cannot persuade them not to pursue, I am ready to do battle.”

“Not with passengers, I hope!” Nalkor put in.

“Only if there is no other way,” Twillor answered. “I doubt it will come to that in any case.”

Longshanks frowned. “Seems to me like you’re taking a lot of chances, Twillor.”

“Agreed. But risks are inevitable in an enterprise of this sort. If you have any suggestions for lessening them, I would be glad to hear them.”

“Can’t think of any right offhand,” Longshanks admitted. “If I do, I’ll let you know. When’s this big escape coming off, anyhow?”

“That is also hidden, even from me to a certain extent. When I feel that the moment has come, I shall set off the diversion I have planned and signal to those who are escaping. Believe me, you will know. But it will be soon. Try to stay together as much as you can from now on. When the signal reaches you, start for the eyries at once. Longshanks, you and Bugdance will ride with me on Dagger Wing. You know where my eyrie is. Heartseeker and Piet will ride with Nalkor, as will Mikail. Nalkor’s eyrie is on the same level as mine. Perhaps he can show you after we leave here.” The dark-haired hawkrider nodded. “Is there anything else you feel you need to know?” the flight leader asked.

“Well, let me see if I’ve got this straight. From now on we try to stay together, wait for your signal. When it comes, we make a run for the eyries. What if somebody tries to stop us?”

Twillor frowned. “Arouse as little suspicion as you can, but do not let yourselves be delayed too long. Our best hope of success lies in surprise and speed, to be out and away before Tyaar and those still loyal to him realize what is happening. If you must fight, you must.”

“Right,” Longshanks said grimly. “Now, when we get to the eyries, you and Nalkor will be waiting for us. We climb on those big birds and off we go. Are you sure they can carry three or four elves apiece?”

“Tyaar said they could only carry two,” Heartseeker remembered.

“Lord Tyaar is not a hawkrider,” the flight leader pointed out. “I have been experimenting in secret and I believe they can, at least for the necessary distance, which is not great. Broadspan will have the heaviest load, but she is a large and strong bird—and fortunately her passengers will be on the small side.” He smiled briefly at Heartseeker.

“The birds take us over that hub-back ridge and drop us off in the woods,” Longshanks went on. “Then all we have to do is keep out of the way of anybody chasing us.”

Mikail, who had been watching the stage while the plan was recounted and sending occasional instructions to the dancers, looked up. “That is one way we hope you will be able to help us,” he commented. “That and sheer survival. We have little practical experience in those areas. I hope you will wish to stay with us,” he added, “rather than striking out on your own—though of course it is your choice. This is not really your battle, after all.”

“Maybe not,” Longshanks said, “but I don’t reckon we’ll run out on you all. Now you’ve trusted us, we won’t let you down.” _And I won’t take your brother away from you, either,_ he added to himself, gazing thoughtfully at Halfwise who was still staring raptly at the dancers.

“I am glad to hear it,” Twillor said warmly. “Believe me, we shall welcome your companionship. I only wish we could have found a way to make sure of your trustworthiness before. It grieves me that you had to discover the evil in Tower Mountain the way you did.”

“Could’ve been worse,” the plains elf said. “’Least we’re all still alive.” _Thanks to Halfwise,_ he thought, remembering the collapsing arch. Then he remembered something Halfwise had said that day, about evil in Tower Mountain. Maybe he should ask Twillor if he knew anything about someone called “Widget.” But no … he doubted the flight leader would have any interest in phantom elves who popped out from behind tapestries to deliver obscure warnings. He hoped that once they got away from the Tower, Halfwise would no longer be troubled by such fantasies.

Anyhow, the dance seemed to be ending, which meant their conference was at an end as well. All of the dancers, led by Peysol and Vallaree, were weaving about the stage in a long line, a final celebration. The music swelled to a triumphant finish. The performance came to a close with the two leading dancers, lord and lady, at center stage, each with an arm about the other’s waist while their free hands reached out and up, an invitation to all their people to rejoice with them in their joining.

Twillor stood up. “A masterly creation, my friend,” he murmured to Mikail as the dancer also rose. “It is truly a pity that it will never be performed.”

Mikail’s mouth twisted wryly. “Oh, it could be,” he replied, “since neither of us need be in attendance for the actual performance. But I doubt it will be. I do not think the subject matter will find much favor with my lord uncle, especially once we—and Piet—are gone.”

Twillor gazed thoughtfully at the back of Halfwise’s sandy head. “For awhile I thought we would lose you,” he commented, “when your brother appeared so suddenly.”

“It was a possibility,” the dancer admitted softly. “I would never have betrayed you, you know that … but I do not think I could have borne to leave him here. And for a little while I hoped he might be—good for Lord Tyaar … that the shining that is within him might lighten our lord’s darkened spirit. But I do not think so any longer.” He sighed. “Do not wait too long to summon us, my friend.”

“I shall not.”

All seven elves were on their feet now, moving toward the aisles that led down to the stage. Longshanks caught up with Airwolf as the glider paused at the end of the row of seats. “I think I can make a guess at somebody else who’s in on this escape,” the plains elf murmured. “Chenir, right?” Airwolf nodded. “Who is she, Airwolf?” Longshanks asked. “When I first saw her, she seemed familiar somehow.”

The chestnut-haired elf stared at him. “I don’t know why she should,” he said with a touch of bitterness, “unless you’d been down to the kitchens recently. She’s a kitchen drudge—not much above the humans who work down there. Can you believe that? All her life she’s been kept in the scullery, never allowed any kind of freedom or pleasure, never allowed to have a lovemate even—”

“Why not?”

“Tyaar’s orders,” Airwolf growled. “Why? High Ones only know. And Shadaln, maybe, but she won’t tell. She raised Chenir and she’s always been decent to her, but she is Tyaar’s cousin. She won’t go against his orders. My guess is it’s just another of his cruel little games. But I’m going to take Chenir away from all that. I’ve sworn it!” His silver eyes flashed and his sharp white teeth were bared in a snarl. “If I have to rip the throats out of half the Declared to do it, I will. I really am part wolf, you know,” he added, grinning at Longshanks.

“You’re what?”

“Ha! Didn’t think you took me seriously the first time. I’m wolfblooded. That’s what makes me stronger and faster than pureblooded elves. Better than any of them, no matter what Tyaar says! I may not live forever, but I’ll be around long enough to spit in his face and get Chenir out of his clutches. After that … wolves mate for life.” Longshanks nodded, beginning to guess why Airwolf’s hatred for the lord of Tower Mountain seemed as fierce as his own. The glider’s claim to have wolf blood confused him somewhat—a wolf couldn’t mate with an elf, could it?—but he reckoned he could question Airwolf about that later, once they got out of here.

Meanwhile Bugdance, on his way toward the front of the hall, found Nalkor at his elbow. He flashed a halfhearted grin at the dark-haired glider. “Nalkor! Just the guy I wanted to talk to.” The jungle elf’s gaze drifted to the stage, where Vallaree stood among the other dancers listening to Mikail’s commentary. Bugdance had more or less attended to the conference with Twillor and Mikail, but his eyes had been on the performance, and on Vallaree, the whole time. He had watched raptly as the brown-haired dancer, in the role of Lady Periel, danced first a virtuoso solo, then a lengthy duet with Peysol. He thought she had never looked so beautiful. “Vallaree…” he murmured to Nalkor. “She isn’t coming, is she?”

The dancer’s brother shook his head. “No.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Imagine, if you will, my little sister trying to survive in the Outside, to hunt or fight… There was a reason she didn’t make the Declared. She was born here, one of the last children of the Tower, and she’s still a child in many ways. Perhaps one day, when there’s a new home to bring her to … but not now.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Bugdance admitted. “But, y’know, I hate to leave without even saying goodbye. I don’t want her to think I don’t care … ’cause I do!”

Nalkor put a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said quietly. “Vallaree has had a number of lovemates, but it’s never been anything serious. She’ll get over it soon enough once the shock wears off. She’ll go and cry in Mother’s lap, and Mother will pat her on the head and say, ‘There, there, dear one,’ and after awhile Valli will go pour out her sorrows to one of her friends—Meiji, maybe—and then she’ll forget about it. I’ve seen it happen before. I hope that doesn’t distress you too much.”

“No! No, I’m glad she won’t mope around. I’d hate to think of her doing that. It’s just that I wish I could tell her I—I’m not running away from her or anything, I’d really like to stay with her, but—I just can’t.” He gave Nalkor a frustrated look. “I’d ask you to tell her, but you’re going too.” He frowned a little. “How come?”

“There are various reasons, but the real answer is standing right there,” Nalkor replied, nodding toward the stage. “Mikail. He’s going—so I am too. It’s as simple as that.” He sighed. “Mother will understand, I think, and Father will never understand, and Valli will miss me, I know, but I have to go anyway. I couldn’t stay here without him. It’s been like that ever since we were children.” Bugdance nodded. For a moment he found himself imagining what his own life would be like without Longshanks, or Heartseeker, or Halfwise—and found he didn’t want to imagine it. The feeling startled him. The three of them were his friends, of course, the best friends he’d ever had, but he had never realized he could feel this deeply about anyone.

They reached the front of the hall, along with the rest of the conspirators. Mikail was giving his last few directions to the dancers while Twillor had a word or two with the musicians. “I want you to think over those points,” Mikail finished. “We shall rehearse it again tomorrow. Stay here for a moment, please. I wish to consult with my source.” Smiling, he indicated Halfwise with a flourish of his hand, then turned in his brother’s direction.

While he was doing so, Bugdance took the opportunity to wave to Vallaree. “Hi there, shimmerbird! Say, you were great!”

The dancer’s face lit as she saw him. “Bugdance! I didn’t know you were here. Did you really like it?”

“Hey, I was sitting back there getting real jealous of Peysol,” Bugdance answered with a grin. Vallaree giggled and the wardrobe master lifted an amused eyebrow at him.

Mikail came over to Halfwise and took his hands. “So what did you think, Piet?” he asked. “Did I get it right?”

“Oh, yes!” Halfwise said enthusiastically. “It was wonderful! Only Winken and Kaethe are a little bit big to be Preservers.”

Mikail laughed lightly. “Well, I’m afraid there is very little we can do about that. We don’t have any real ones. You can all go now,” he called to the troupe. “You have been approved by the expert.” The dancers chuckled and began to disperse. Mikail drew Halfwise to his feet and put an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

As they walked toward the aisle where his three friends stood waiting, Halfwise said in a troubled voice, “I _did_ have a real one.”

“A real what, Piet?”

“A Preserver. When I came here. Its name is Flitterleaf. It got lost and Uncle Tyaar said he’d find it, only he didn’t. Then Widget said I should find the evil in Tower Mountain and Flitterleaf would be there, and the garden of poisonous plants, and … I’m so confused.” He looked at his brother appealingly.

Mikail’s face had gone grave. “I don’t know what to tell you, Piet,” he said at last in a low voice. “I shall try to find out what happened to your Preserver, if I can. In the meantime—you know that we are leaving here soon, do you not, and that you must tell no one? We talked about it yesterday.” Halfwise nodded. “Good. Stay near your friends and wait. It will not be long. Then we shall be together always, my brother.” He gave Halfwise a final squeeze before turning him over to his companions.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Escape. Who will stay and who will go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines from Twillor's "Song of Flying" in this chapter are by Ree Moorhead Pruehs and are used here by the kind permission of the author.

_From famine to feast—and now it’ll be back to famine again,_ Heartseeker thought as he made his way up the Grand Stair.

Night had come to Tower Mountain, marked mostly by a shift in the activities of its inhabitants, but on the Stair also by the lighting of lamps at turns and landings. The great central shaft of the Tower was lit by sunlight for much of the day; Doleera had told Heartseeker of the sheets of polished metal set into the upper reaches of the shaft so that even indirect rays could be reflected downward. But now all was dark save for the helix of twinkling flame running up the inner walls.

The small hunter paused to lean on the balustrade and admire the view, then to run an appreciative hand over the graceful curves of an abstract sculpture that stood at a turn of the Stair. Prison though it might be, there were things he was going to miss about Tower Mountain. There was so much beauty here; it did recall the lost dwellings of the High Ones. What a pity the dream had gone sour.

So much beauty, and not only in the works of art. Heartseeker caressed the sculpture again, imagining its curves as warm flesh rather than cold stone. Kiriel … Doleera… What would happen to their wager when he left? He had tried to tell himself he didn’t care, that they could play their games with someone else. But as he and his friends waited for Twillor’s signal, the small elf found his longing for female companionship becoming stronger. It didn’t help to have Bugdance mooning over Vallaree every other breath. Bugdance should count himself lucky. He hadn’t had the aggravation of being interrupted every time he started getting really intimate. Finally Heartseeker could stand it no longer. He had told his friends he was going for a walk and that he would be back by daylight. They all agreed it was highly unlikely that Twillor would stage his escape by night. “If the Declared were owl-riders, that’d be one thing,” Longshanks pointed out, “but hawks’re day birds. Twillor told me they can’t soar as well at night, either—something about rising air columns you only get during the day.” That being so, the plains elf had only nodded understandingly when Heartseeker announced his intentions. Heartseeker wondered a little guiltily if Longshanks guessed the whole of those intentions. Well, he planned on being on the eyrie levels, anyway…

He thought he could find his way to Doleera’s eyrie, even though she had only taken him up there once. Kiriel he could not face, not after what had happened at her brother’s party, but Doleera … she _had_ thought to send Winken after him. And she wasn’t related to that rock-snake and his equally reptilian cousin. Heartseeker had met Doleera’s parents briefly, gentle Lyris with his deep forest-green eyes and fiery Silara in whose footsteps Doleera had followed when she became a hawkrider. They reminded him of his own parents with the sexes reversed. It was no wonder Doleera seemed so sympathetic to his tales of Heartfree and Dusksinger.

Peysol was right. He, Heartseeker, could play the game as well as anyone. He was going to settle the wager before he left Tower Mountain by making his own choice. The small hunter started up the Stair again with determination in his step, rehearsing possible opening lines in his head.

He began to scrutinize the archways carefully when he reached the eyrie levels. He did not want to make Longshanks’ mistake and end up in front of Jand’s eyrie. He had seen all he cared to of the black-haired glider at Beliel’s party. Ah, yes, this was it, the arch topped by a bas-relief of two hawks in flight, one slightly larger than the other. He remembered Doleera pointing it out to him, and joking with him about female hawks being bigger and stronger than the males. “But somehow the males always manage to catch up with them,” she had said with an innocent air. Smiling to himself, Heartseeker stepped through the arch and headed down the passageway beyond. Unlike some of the eyrie level passages, this one was not curtained against drafts. Instead, a stonework lattice of flying birds partly screened the outer section of the corridor from the inner. Through the screen Heartseeker could glimpse the doorway of Doleera’s eyrie—

—and the male elf standing there.

The small hunter instinctively shrank against the wall behind the screen and peered out through the lattice. Beliel! Heartseeker felt anger boiling up inside him. How dared that slimy weasel show up here, of all places! _Come on now, Daivi,_ he told himself firmly. _He’s got just as much right to be here as you do. And probably the same reason,_ he admitted, wincing inwardly. With reluctance he recalled something else Peysol had said, about Doleera joining with anything on two legs. Even he had to admit that the rockshaper was not bad-looking, curse him. Powerful, influential, Talented… Heartseeker ground his teeth. He was outmatched at this game, most likely had been from the start. He should probably creep away while he still had a few rags of pride left. No … if he moved now he might be seen, and that would be the final embarrassment. Better to wait until Beliel went inside. The small hunter squeezed his eyes shut and pressed himself flat against the stone.

The rockshaper’s smooth voice spoke. “Doleera?” A pause. “I believe you hinted earlier there was something you wished to say to me.” Another pause. Then Doleera’s honeyed tones floated out, somewhat muffled by the hanging across the doorway but understandable enough.

“You must have misunderstood me, Beliel. I said that there was certain information I wished to impart to my lord. Important information, requiring privacy.”

“So you did,” the rockshaper conceded. “My lord therefore sends me to request the pleasure of your company in his chambers for a private conference—just the three of us.”

A pause, then, “I see. Very well, it shall be as my lord wishes.” The hawkrider did not sound particularly displeased. There was a somewhat lengthier pause, then the sound of the door-curtain swishing aside and a murmur of admiration from Beliel. Heartseeker opened his eyes and stole a peek through the screen. He swallowed. And he had thought the dress she’d had on at the party was revealing! This one you could practically see through, especially with the lamplight shining through it from behind. Doleera stood posed in the doorway for several heartbeats before stepping forward to take the arm Beliel offered her. The rockshaper chuckled.

“Ever the tease, eh, Doleera? Business must come before pleasure, I fear, but afterwards—it will be our pleasure, not so? Come.” The two of them started down the corridor toward Heartseeker. The small hunter drew back into the shadows once more, holding himself as still as if he were stalking startle-birds. The two tall elves passed him by without a glance, though they came close enough for him to scent the faint perfume that wafted from Doleera’s hair. They were almost to the archway when Heartseeker heard Beliel speak again. “You mentioned something about a traitor in the ranks?”

Doleera answered a trifle sharply, “I have said before that my new is for Lord Tyaar’s ears.”

“As you wish,” said Beliel, but that brief exchange was enough to galvanize Heartseeker. Traitor in the ranks? What were they talking about? Might they— _could_ they be referring to the escape? Had Twillor’s plot been discovered? If so, he had better warn the flight leader immediately. But the reference was too vague for him to be sure of anything. If he followed them, he might hear more. Calling upon all his hunter’s stealth, he hurried down the passage after them. He paused just inside the arch to let them get a little way down the stairs, then stepped soundlessly onto the landing.

Shadowing the two Tower elves proved to be fairly easy. There was plenty of cover on the Grand Stair, what with all the sculptures and other ornamentation, and plenty of lamp-cast shadows. Neither did his quarry seem to suspect they were being followed. _More used to spying than being spied on,_ Heartseeker thought grimly. The only really bad moment he had was when he almost ran into a tall, gaunt elf with a mane of unkempt white hair, who emerged from a doorway onto the Stair without warning. But the elf walked straight past him, not taking the least notice of the small hunter, and went on up the stairs, muttering something under his breath and fingering the cloth bag he wore around his neck. The bag rattled faintly, as if it was full of stones or shells. Heartseeker stared after this apparition for a moment, blinking a few times, then hurried on after Beliel and Doleera.

At last the two Tower elves turned into an archway off the Stair. Heartseeker took the time to scrutinize the arch before following them through it, partly to orient himself and partly to give them a bit of a lead. The arch was sculpted with a feathered serpent, very much like the design of the torc Halfwise always wore. When he crept down the curving passage beyond, Heartseeker found the two standing in front of a set of tall double doors inlaid with the same fabulous creature. Except for the doors of the throne room, these were the first real doors Heartseeker had seen in Tower Mountain, though he was familiar with the device from trading journeys to the troll caverns in his youth. At the far end of the hall he could just glimpse another inlaid door that looked as if it bore a similar motif. Was there a tree in the design too?

Beliel knocked at the doors in front of him. They were opened by an elderly human, but the voice issuing from them was unmistakably Lord Tyaar’s. “Beliel, Doleera. It is a pleasure. Come in, both of you. Meduk, you have seen to the arrangements for tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, Most Honored One,” the old man said.

“You may go, then. I shall leave the garden door unlocked when I retire.”

“All will be as you have commanded, Most Honored One.” The old human bowed deeply in the direction of the chamber within, opened the door for Beliel and Doleera with another bow, then bowed once more before stepping into the hall and closing the door behind him. Heartseeker ducked out of the archway just in time and behind a tall urn on the landing as the old human pottered past him. When he could no longer hear Meduk’s descending footsteps, the small elf darted back through the arch. In another few moments he was kneeling by the tall doors, his ear pressed to the crack between them.

“Would you care for wine, Doleera?” he heard the Tower Lord say.

“A little, perhaps, my lord.”

“If you would be so kind, Beliel?” Liquid noises. “Thank you. Now, Doleera, you say your information is most delicate?” A pause. “Perhaps the inner chamber would be more suitable for its delivery, then.” There was a chuckle from Beliel, echoed by Tyaar. “Now, Beliel! Curb your lascivious imaginings for the moment. I meant only to suggest that the inner chamber is more private, less liable to intrusion—though I doubt anyone will intrude upon us at this time of night. Come, both of you.” Curtain rings rattled.

Beliel spoke, but his voice was muffled. Heartseeker cursed inwardly. That inner chamber was more private, all right. Doleera’s exclamation was clearly audible, however. “Goodness, my lord, what sort of creature is that?”

“That, my dear young hawkrider, is a Preserver.” Tyaar must be facing the door. “You may perhaps have heard stories about them, though you will not have seen one before now. I had not seen one myself since before the Sundering until my nephew turned up with this one. Fortunately Beliel was able to capture it before anyone else saw it. I trust you will keep silence about its presence here.”

A shrill voice came to Heartseeker’s ears, one he knew all too well. “Ooo! Nastybad highthing! Let Flitterleaf out of cage!” The Preserver’s tone became wheedling. “Softpretty highthing let Flitterleaf out? Flitterleaf bring juiceberries, bring beesweets for softpretty hair! Nice highthing!”

“Silence, Preserver!” Tyaar said. “I have warned you before about speaking when I have not commanded it. Must I lesson you again?” There was no sound from Flitterleaf. “That is better,” said the Tower Lord.

Beliel’s voice came again, but Heartseeker could catch only a few words. “…still say … rid of the creature.”

“Now, Beliel! They have their uses, as you know. I wish to be sure … explored the possibilities … dispose of it.” Tyaar must have turned away from the door. His voice too was becoming indistinct. _Troll warts!_ Heartseeker thought in frustration.

By straining his forest-trained ears, however, he could still pick up snatches of the conversation within, enough to make out some of what they were talking about. The words “traitor” and “escape” were enough to keep him pressed close to the inlaid door. Awhile later he heard the name “Silara,” something about “herbs,” then the phrase “think they mean to escape hawkback.”

A clearly audible question from Tyaar: “Have you spoken to Twillor of these suspicions?”

“No, my lord,” from Doleera. “…directly to you … not certain how far this treachery extends.” A question from Beliel, only recognizable as such by its inflection. “…suggest nothing … only reporting my own observations.” Doleera sounded slightly huffy.

Tyaar’s voice, muffled. “…did right, in this case.” Then, clearly, “I shall question the flight leader myself upon this matter. Have you any other observations to report?” A pause. “Very well, then. I shall consider carefully what you have told me. In the meantime, continue to observe them. You may report what you discover either to Beliel or to me. Beliel … Chosen … particularly alert … eyries.”

There were a few words from Beliel that Heartseeker could not make out. Then Doleera queried, a playful note in her voice, “Will that be all, my lord?”

Tyaar chuckled. “What a surprise to you it would be if I said yes! But no … I shall not dismiss you so unceremoniously, my dear. Our business is concluded, yes, but not, I trust, our pleasure in each other’s company.”

By the time Heartseeker unbent his cramped limbs and eased himself away from the richly inlaid doors, the faint sounds that came from Lord Tyaar’s chambers were no longer those of conversation.

 

Longshanks’ sleep was broken by an urgent sending from Heartseeker. He started awake in an instant and grabbed at the small elf’s arm. “What is it?” he hissed. “Is it time?”

Heartseeker shook his dark head. “No,” he whispered back. “I just got back from my walk.”

“Right.” Longshanks pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, wondering why the small hunter had awakened him. Was it time to get up? It was hard to tell within Tower Mountain, but the plains elf still had a rough sense of night and day. “What’ve you been up to all night?” he asked Heartseeker after a moment. “It must be near morning.”

“I’ve been listening at doors,” Heartseeker replied grimly, “and you’ll never guess what I heard.” He proceeded to relate to Longshanks his night’s adventures and the alarming conversation he had heard through the doors of Lord Tyaar’s chambers. By the time he finished, Bugdance was awake too, a scowl forming on his face as he listened. “Do you think we’d better tell Twillor?” Heartseeker finished. “He said himself even he wouldn’t be able to keep the truth from Tyaar if he were questioned.”

“Guess we’d better,” Longshanks agreed, getting out of bed and reaching for his jacket. All of them had taken to sleeping in their clothes again, with a small bundle of possessions near at hand, but the heavy buckskin made him sweat too much under the covers. “Don’t know how much good it’ll do—if Tyaar knows, he knows—but at least we can give Twillor some warning so’s he won’t be caught off guard. You come on up with me to Twillor’s eyrie—we’d better go now before those two humans of Halfwise’s get here. Bugdance, you stay here with Halfwise and—”

Heartseeker snapped his fingers. “That reminds me! I found out where Halfwise’s Preserver is.”

“Really? Where?” asked Bugdance.

“Tyaar’s had it in his chambers all this time.”

“Huh? How do you know?”

“That’s the door I was listening at, bug-brain!” Heartseeker flashed a picture of the tall double doors inlaid with the feathered serpent design. “I heard it myself—no mistaking _that_ voice—”

A gasp came from Halfwise’s direction. The sandy-haired elf was sitting up in bed, staring at them with wide brown eyes. “Flitterleaf!” he cried. “The evil—”

At that moment a powerful sending locked into each of their minds in turn. It was a brief but vivid image of a soaring hawk against the sun. The signature was unmistakably Twillor’s. “That’s it!” Longshanks exclaimed, making a grab for his pack. “That’s the signal! Let’s go!”

“No!” cried Halfwise. “I won’t leave without Flitterleaf!”

 

Mikail had been awake all night. A feeling of anticipation and foreboding had been growing on him ever since the rehearsal; by now it was so strong it would not allow him to sleep. He had attempted to distract himself with everything from strenuous dance exercises to the knot-weaving project he was working on under Nalkor’s tutelage. Nothing served to relax him. Finally, as dawn broke, marked by the shuffling footsteps of the lamp-tender going past on the Stair, the dancer decided to head up to Nalkor’s eyrie. No one would find it suspicious, or indeed at all unusual, if he chose to visit with his soulbrother.

He took the time to change into a fresh tunic, splash water on his face, and run a comb through his unruly hair before stepping out the door. As he reached the Grand Stair a sending touched his mind, unmistakable in its power and clarity. **Mikail. I would be pleased if you would join me for breakfast in my private garden.**

Fear gripped the dancer; he thrust it down. There was no cause for apprehension. It was not at all unusual for Lord Tyaar to request his company. Despite the changes that had come upon Tower Mountain and its lord since Wisprian’s death, there was still a bond between Mikail and his uncle far stronger than that of blood alone. The Tower Lord would open his heart more freely to Mikail than he would to any other elf in the Tower. He seemed to find his nephew’s presence soothing when he was troubled in mind. Mikail wondered briefly whom Tyaar would turn to for such companionship when he was gone. For now, though, he had no choice but to answer the summons. **Of course, my lord,** he sent. Turning his back on the upward way that led to the eyries, he headed down the Stair toward Lord Tyaar’s chambers.

He reached the arch sculpted with the feathered serpent and entered it. He passed by the tall double doors where Heartseeker had crouched and went on to the door at the end of the hall, where another inlaid serpent wound about a branching tree. The door was unlocked. Opening it, he saw his uncle waiting for him, seated at a low table set up beneath the vine-hung trellis at the far end of the garden. “Good morning, nephew,” Lord Tyaar said.

“Good morning, uncle. I—” At that moment a flare of sending burst into the dancer’s mind, the image of a hawk in flight. The signal!

Mikail blinked. Tyaar looked at him in concern. “Is there something wrong, nephew?”

“It is nothing, my lord,” Mikail answered, struggling to keep his face and voice from showing his alarm or the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “A message from Nalkor. Allow me to reply.”

The golden head bent, graciously giving leave. “Of course.” There was no hint of suspicion in Tyaar’s voice or actions, no indication that he might have sensed the sending himself or knew its source was not Nalkor but Twillor.

Marshaling all the calm and control at his command, Mikail sent openly to his soulbrother. **My apologies, my friend. My lord has requested my presence this morning. I shall not be able to fly with you. Go on without me.** _And may the High Ones watch over you all,_ he added within himself. Turning, he closed the door of the garden behind him, then stepped lightly down the flagged path to settle himself among the cushions beside his uncle. “Did you merely desire my company, my lord, or was there something you wished to discuss?” Mikail asked as the Tower Lord handed him a cup of steaming herbal tea.

“In fact, there was,” Tyaar replied. “It concerns your brother.”

 

In his eyrie, Twillor was humming the “Song of Flying” under his breath as he checked Dagger Wing’s harness yet again.

_Alive! My life aborning_  
 _In flight a song is soaring;_  
 _My spirit, blood and body_  
 _unite in glider’s glory_  
 _Alive!_

It was done. The signal had been given. Soon they would be on their way to the Outside and freedom. He patted the giant hawk’s shoulder. “One final flight, my friend, and then you shall be free to spend your last years in whatever skies you find to roam. I wish I could take you with me, but I doubt there will be any nesting place for you where we are going.”

The flight leader reviewed his plan one more time, the plan that was unfolding even now. A smile tugged at his lips as he thought of the diversion Widget had engineered for him. Winning the Mouse’s trust, after eights-of-eights of being his adversary and would-be captor, had been a difficult task, but one worth the pains. Only the “crazy” renegade rockshaper could have thought of such a trick or carried it out, diverting water from the Tower cisterns into a reservoir just above the kitchens, then releasing it through holes in the ceiling to create an indoor rainstorm. The human servants would be in a panic. Twillor had already received an exasperated request for help from Kesik, and coolly dispatched Jand and Jilleen, the hawkriders up for first hawkback patrol, to help the castellan deal with the mess. That gave Nalkor and himself the excuse they needed to prepare for flight. With any luck Kesik would have called Beliel, too, to close the holes in the ceiling. In the confusion it should be easy for Chenir to slip away and join Airwolf and the other gliders in the disused eyrie they had selected. Meanwhile, those hawkriders in on the escape were standing ready while their passengers headed for the eyries. Ayla and Chimreh were out on hunt, Dijin on wide patrol. Tanyel and Eylar were on dawn patrol; Twillor had not been able to prevent the cadet-master from assigning himself this duty, but at least Eylar had taken the hubward sector. Otherwise the duty roster was nearly perfect for his plan. This was one of the random factors the flight leader had been waiting on, since he had known from the beginning that Eylar could never be convinced to betray his lord.

Twillor could see Tanyel heading for the main eyrie now, his crest of red-gold hair like a flame in the growing sunlight. If the hawkmaster and Silara had done their job, the birds not belonging to the conspirators should be too drugged to fly. It helped that Silara’s lifemate was an herbalist—and a budding treeshaper. The awakening of Lyris’s long-dormant Talent was one reason he and Silara had chosen to leave the Tower.

The flight leader’s musings were interrupted by a locksending from Nalkor, a mental cry of distress. **Twillor! I just got a sending from Mikail. He’s with Lord Tyaar! He can’t get to the eyries!**

Twillor cursed inwardly. He should have known things were going too well to be true. **What did he say?** he asked Nalkor. The hawkrider relayed his soulbrother’s message. Twillor’s return sending was grim. **It is far too late to change plans now, Nalkor. Mikail realizes that. He is keeping Lord Tyaar’s attention elsewhere while the rest of us escape.**

**I can’t leave! Not without him!**

**Mikail would want you to get his brother out at all costs, you know that. When Piet and his companions are safely away, you can come back if you must. But for now we must carry out the plan. Far too much is at stake for us to lose this chance.**

**Aye, Twillor,** Nalkor returned bleakly. Then, **Where _are_ they, curse it? They should have reached here by now. Have Longshanks and Bugdance gotten to you yet?**

**No,** the flight leader replied, concern tingeing his sending. **I hope nothing has delayed them.**

At that moment another sending blazed into his thoughts, one he had hoped never to feel again. **Alert, flight leader!** came Beliel’s mind-voice. **The previous alarm in the kitchens was a diversion. There’s an escape going on. Shadaln is calling out Tyaar’s Chosen. We suspect hawkrider involvement, so get your birds in the air!**

_High Ones give us aid!_ thought Twillor. Despite all his precautions, something of their plan must have leaked out. Still, Beliel did not seem to suspect the full extent of hawkrider involvement. Calling on his well-known dislike of the rockshaper, he sent back coldly, **Since when do you command the hawkriders, Beliel? I take my orders from Lord Tyaar and no other.**

**Lord Tyaar is otherwise occupied at the moment,** Beliel returned. **He has given me authority to deal with this matter—and he will hear it from me if you do not cooperate. I do not think he will be pleased.**

**Very well.** It went against the grain for Twillor to give in to Beliel, but he sensed the edge of suspicion in the rockshaper’s sending. **Nalkor and I are ready to take wing immediately. The rest of the hawkriders will follow as soon as they can prepare.** He slammed his mind shut to Beliel. Nalkor would have picked up the exchange too, he hoped, since he had been in touch with the younger hawkrider when it occurred. A brief locksending to Nalkor confirmed this.

**What do we do now, Twillor?**

**Make it look good, my friend—make it look good.** The flight leader grasped Dagger Wing’s harness and lifted himself onto the hawk’s back.

 

“Halfwise, you’re crazy! We can’t go in there!” Longshanks expostulated in a hissing whisper. The four friends stood outside the tall double doors of Lord Tyaar’s chambers. 

“We have to!” Halfwise whispered back. At least they had gotten him to stay reasonably quiet. “I have to save Flitterleaf!”

The argument had gone on all the way down the Grand Stair. In their first mad rush out the door, his three friends had hoped to be able to steer Halfwise toward the eyries despite his sudden determination not to leave Tower Mountain without his Preserver. Unfortunately the young elf seemed to know exactly where he was going—something about a poison garden. No amount of pleading and cajoling could turn him from his downward path. At last the others gave up trying to talk Halfwise out of his intention and concentrated on hurrying him along. If they had to take him to the very door of Lord Tyaar’s rooms to show him how hopeless his errand was, at least they could make sure they lost as little time as possible doing so.

“What if Tyaar’s in there?” Longshanks demanded. “Do you want him to catch us? ’Sides, you can’t just walk through these things like you would a curtain.” He grasped the gold-plated handle of one of the doors and shook it. The door remained closed. “See? Now will you come on?”

Halfwise was trembling with apprehension, but he repeated stubbornly, “We have to get in there.”

“Halfwise—”

Just then the door opened. All four of them jumped back from it in alarm, but all that emerged was an elderly human, carrying a chamber pot. The old servant blinked at the four elves. “Did you want something, Honored Ones?” he asked. “Do you seek the Spirit Lord? He is not within, but if you wish to leave word with my humble self, I shall be happy to—”

“Uh, yeah,” Longshanks interrupted, shooting a look at the others. “Do you, uh, want to step over here for a moment?” The old human nodded, set down the heavy ceramic pot and moved toward him. A heartbeat later Heartseeker’s extended foot tripped him and Bugdance’s joined hands slammed down on the back of his neck. Longshanks was just able to catch him as he fell, staggering under the weight. “Oof! Sorry about that, old fella,” the plains elf murmured, lowering the human to the floor. “Hope Tyaar won’t be too mad at you. Come on!” He beckoned to the others and they made a concerted rush for the door.

The chamber within was spacious, richly but sparely furnished and decorated. The lines of couch and table and screen were graceful, with a classic simplicity. There was no clutter or excessive ornamentation. There were a few objects of art, a sculpture here, a tapestry there, all of exceptional beauty. The whole room bespoke the order its inhabitant sought to achieve, the perfection he demanded. But the four friends did not stop to admire it. Heartseeker pointed to a curtained doorway in the far wall. “Try in there,” he said, drawing his shortsword. “I’ll watch the door. You go get Flitterleaf.”

Longshanks was the first through the curtain, but it was Halfwise who spotted the tiny stone cage shaped into a low table at the far corner of the room. “Flitterleaf!”

“Softhead highthing!” the Preserver shrilled joyfully. “Softhead highthing safe! Flitterleaf happy! Come let Flitterleaf out, yes? Happy see tallcap highthing and bushytop highthing too,” it added.

“Yes, we’re going to let you out,” Halfwise told it.

“Is good! Slyface highthing trick Flitterleaf, say nice words and shape trap-thing,” the Preserver went on in injured tones. “Oldtall highthing make much hurt, not let Flitterleaf see softhead highthing. Nastybad! Flitterleaf vexed!”

“Yeah, so are we,” said Longshanks. “But we’re getting out of this place soon as we can get you loose, Flitterleaf. What’re you waiting for, Halfwise?”

“It doesn’t have a door,” the young elf responded, running his hands over the cage with a perplexed expression.

“No problem,” said Bugdance. “We’ll just smash it.”

“Careful not to squash the bug,” Longshanks admonished.

“Flitterleaf’s tough,” the jungle elf said confidently. He had learned that fact about his friend’s bright-winged companion early on, when Nosey came out the loser in an altercation with the Preserver. He looked about the room for a suitable blunt object and found a graceful metal sculpture of a nude female elf. “C’mere, cutie,” he said with a grin. “Stand back, Halfwise.” Hefting the figurine, he swung it at the cage. The stone bars shattered with a satisfying crash.

 

Lord Tyaar had risen from his place at the low table and was pacing about the small garden as he talked. Mikail listened with a growing distress he was at pains to conceal. “You say you examined Piet, my lord?”

“I did—in this very garden, in fact,” the Tower Lord confirmed, “after my suspicions were aroused by his remarkable performance in the human village under the influence of the local vintage, which I am sure you will recall. I brought him here the next morning. It was quite easy to induce sleep and to enter his mind. He is remarkably open in that regard. Afterwards I made sure he remembered nothing. I did not wish to arouse his companions’ mistrust.”

“And what did you discover?” Mikail asked, keeping his voice as level as he could. Inwardly he seethed with anger at Tyaar’s violation of his brother’s mind, and fear of what he might have found there. Piet did not know, consciously, of Mikail’s hidden healing abilities, but surely he must have sensed it on some level through their bond. If Tyaar had detected that…

Tyaar paused and raised an eyebrow at Mikail. “I found that my brother was a fool,” he said. “Meiron thought his second son half-witted and Talentless, did you know that? In reality his potential is enormous, though most of his Talent is still dormant.”

“What Talent is that, my lord? I have noted that he ‘feels’ magic,” Mikail said cautiously, his fear abating somewhat.

“Indeed he does, with great sensitivity. His sending is immature, but of rare power, as we have seen. And he has the potential of receiving an even wider range of impressions. A healer’s sensibilities, a rockshaper’s, a plantshaper’s—perhaps more. He has no manipulative abilities that I could detect, but that hardly matters. Were his Talent to come to full maturity and conscious use, I believe there would be little that goes on in this Valley that would be hidden from him, from the deepest rumblings in the earth below to the slightest breath of air that ruffles a hawk’s feathers, if he chose to attend to it.”

“Would be, my lord?”

Tyaar smiled. “You detect my use of the conditional. As I said, much of Piet’s Talent lies dormant. For the moment I think it best that it remain so … as, I suspect, someone else thought it best.”

“Someone else?” Mikail echoed, startled.

His uncle’s face grew distant and its expression softened. For a moment it was the old Tyaar who stood there, and his nephew’s heart twisted with longing. “Imagine a child, an infant, having to cope with not only all of the new and strange impressions his physical senses gave him, but those of all the other sensitivities I have described. A heavy burden indeed for a young mind, one that might prove overwhelming. It may have been in self-preservation that large areas of Piet’s brain were closed up or cut off or pushed down below the level of consciousness. But I think not. As I walked the pathways of his mind I thought I detected traces of a much earlier presence. There were healers of considerable skill among those Sundered from us. Irralev, perhaps… But I stray. As I say, I discovered all this, and a fascinating study it was.” The present lord of Tower Mountain was back, Mikail noted with a chill. “I took the liberty of severing a connection here and there that was beginning to link up again. We cannot have Piet awakening too soon. Not, at least, until we can be sure of our control over him.” The dancer stared down into his empty cup, not trusting himself to speak.

“It is well that he has become so close to you,” Tyaar went on, beginning to pace once more. “That bond may serve to weaken the hold over him that these Outsiders seem to have, especially the one called Longshanks.” There was distaste in the Tower Lord’s tone, with an undercurrent of hatred. Mikail shuddered inwardly, but he could easily guess the reason for his uncle’s reaction. Longshanks had been a father to Piet, as Mikail himself had sensed. Tyaar wanted that position for himself and was furious that a mere “savage” should dare to usurp it.

Mikail found himself thinking back to the conversation he had had with the plains elf about Piet. Words of his own came to his mind’s ear: “My friend, I do believe there is enough love in that one shining spirit to embrace the whole world, if it were to flow forth. Surely there is enough for the two of us.” _Oh, uncle,_ he thought, _could you see so much and yet be so blind to what Piet is? There is room in his heart for all of us, and healing too, if you could only accept it._ But in his own heart he knew that Tyaar’s darkened spirit was incapable of being touched by Piet’s shining, at least for now.

Thank the High Ones his friends were taking Piet out of here. The danger to his brother was even greater than Mikail had feared. As long as Piet remained merely Lord Tyaar’s nephew, he might have dwelt peacefully in Tower Mountain, protected by his uncle much as Mikail was, even loved insofar as Tyaar’s spirit was capable of it. But now that Piet’s potential Talents were revealed, Tyaar would never rest until those powers were under his control, either with his nephew’s consent or without it. Mikail did not know which image sickened him more: Piet corrupted into Tyaar’s willing tool, or mind-shaped into a will-less, Functional instrument of his uncle’s ambitions—like Vision, the far-sighted Functional, only worse. In either case, he realized, with such sensory powers at Tyaar’s command, none of them would be safe ever again.

Mikail was trying to think of something sufficiently noncommittal to say to his uncle when a sudden, sharp sound came to them, a faint crash like stone shattering. Tyaar’s head snapped around to stare at the wall that separated the garden from his adjoining quarters. “What was that?”

“I have no idea, my lord,” the dancer replied with perfect honesty.

Tyaar frowned. “It may be no more than a clumsy servant … but I do not like unexplained noises in my chambers. Wait here.” He strode toward the intervening wall. As he did so, a sending lanced from him. **Door, open!**

 

In the chamber beyond, the freed Preserver flew in giddy circles around Halfwise’s head. “Flitterleaf out! Flitterleaf happy! Softhead highthing happy?” The young elf’s laughter was all the answer required. Longshanks and Bugdance smiled too at Halfwise’s uncontained joy. But the plains elf had not lost all caution.

“We can save the big reunion for later,” he advised. “We’ve got Flitterleaf. Now let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, yes! Highthings leave nastybad castle-place,” the Preserver seconded him, coming to rest on Halfwise’s head.

The plains elf sent to Heartseeker, **All clear out there?**

**Nothing going on in the hall. There’s shouting on the Stair, though, people running up and down. I dragged that human inside so no one will see him. Have you got the bug?**

**Yeah, we’re on our way.**

At that moment Halfwise whirled with a gasp to face the wall of the chamber to the right of the door. As if on cue, the wall opened. Lord Tyaar stood in the opening. For a heartbeat or two they all stood frozen in shock.

Bugdance was the first to recover. “Flitterleaf! Get ’im!” he cried, pointing to the Tower Lord.

“Ooo, yes! Nastybad highthing!” The Preserver’s eyes glittered with malice as it swooped to the attack. Before Tyaar could react, a gob of white webbing hit him in the face. The tall elf reeled back, then staggered forward with a strangled cry, clawing at the air. Flitterleaf circled around him, gleefully spitting more goo on him. “Flitterleaf teach nastybad highthing to make badhurt, put Flitterleaf in cage! Ptoo!”

Whooping with laughter, Bugdance snatched a silk coverlet from the bed and whipped it around the tall Tower Lord, where the sticky threads held it fast. The jungle elf gave a yank and Tyaar toppled to the floor. “That’s for Nosey, you son of a she-troll! C’mon, quick! While he’s still off balance,” he yelled to his companions, making a dash for the door. Longshanks started to follow before he noticed that Halfwise was not moving. His young friend was staring at the opening in the wall, face to face with Mikail. The blond dancer wore a stunned expression. Longshanks felt hardly less surprised himself.

**Prairie fires, Mikail!** he snapped, locksending. **What are you doing here? Oh, never mind—come on!**

The dancer’s blue eyes turned on him. A brief hope blazed in them and was gone. Wordlessly he shook his head, then inclined it toward the struggling figure of Lord Tyaar. The plains elf understood his message with no need of sending. Tyaar would not stay entangled for long. Once free of the dulling effect of the Preserver webbing and able to bring his Talents to bear, Tyaar could make it nearly impossible for the escape to succeed if he guessed what was going on. But Mikail was still free from suspicion. He might be able to distract the Tower Lord long enough for the rest of them to get away. Longshanks nodded, swallowing down a lump in his throat.

Mikail darted forward to embrace Halfwise. “Go on, Piet,” he whispered in his brother’s ear. “Go with your friends. I can’t come with you now, but I shall always be with you in spirit. High Ones keep you, my brother!” Then, disengaging himself from Halfwise’s embrace, he passed him into Longshanks’ waiting hands. Blue eyes met brown; again the understanding between them did not require even a sending.

_Take care of him._

_I will—always._

Then they were gone, and Mikail turned to attend to his trapped uncle.

 

Bugdance and Heartseeker were waiting just inside the door of Tyaar’s chambers. The old servant lay on the floor, still out cold. “What kept you?” Heartseeker whispered. “And why is Halfwise crying?”

“It’d take too long to explain,” Longshanks replied. “Let’s get out of here. Flitterleaf, get into Halfwise’s pack. We don’t want to draw more notice than we have to.” The Preserver, seeming to realize the seriousness of the situation for once, obeyed. The four friends ran down the hall toward the Grand Stair with Longshanks in the lead. Just within the archway the plains elf froze and shrank back against the wall. The others quickly followed suit as a band of gold-torced human warriors came pounding up the Stair, led by a grim-faced Jilleen. Heartseeker gulped. The lithe elf woman did not look at all playful now.

“Dung rot!” Bugdance whispered. “Something’s gone wrong.”

“Sure has,” Longshanks returned. “They’re between us and the eyries.”

“What do we do now?” asked the jungle elf. “Is there another way out?”

Inspiration struck Heartseeker. “Maybe there is. Halfwise! The day you went to the human village—how did you get outside? Think!”

Halfwise looked at him. “Through the Door. The way we came in. I sent to him like Eylar did and he opened for me.”

“Great! Can you do it again?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s go, then!”

They raced out of the archway and down the Stair as fast as they could go, too desperate to worry about stealth anymore. The human guards were missing from the foot of the Stair, probably swept up in the general turmoil. As they sprinted across the Great Hall, however, they heard a shout from behind them. A quick glance over their shoulders revealed another band of Chosen with Jand at their head. As the four wanderers ducked into the tunnel leading to the Door, Bugdance scrabbled in Halfwise’s pack to release the Preserver. “Flitterleaf! Make wrapstuff! Block the passage!” Within moments a curtain of white webbing screened them from their pursuers.

“That won’t hold ’em long,” Longshanks predicted.

“Shouldn’t have to,” Bugdance responded. The two of them hurried down the passage to where Halfwise stood with Heartseeker at his elbow, staring up at the gaudily clad Door. The air seemed to quiver with the young elf’s sending, but the blank wall beneath the ornate niche remained a wall.

“Come on!” the small elf muttered. “Open up already!”

Halfwise turned to the three of them, bewilderment in his face. “He won’t open,” he said. “He did before, but he won’t now. He’s all closed up inside—or something…”

“Prairie fires!” Longshanks cursed. “We’re trapped, then. Those warriors’ll be breaking through that web any moment now.” He felt for his knife, wondering if a fight would be worth the trouble. With a coldness in his heart he remembered Twillor’s grim words: _There is always Taywar’s way out._ He would take it rather than be caged again, if he didn’t have Halfwise to think of.

They could hear cautious footsteps in the passage. The Chosen had broken through. Longshanks groped behind him, thinking to put stone at his back in any case, and found empty air. _Fresh_ air…

“The Door is open!” exclaimed Heartseeker, at the same moment that Halfwise cried joyfully, “Widget!” Longshanks whirled. The tunnel to the Outside stood open. Above it crouched a grinning elf with shaggy red hair, clad only in a green loincloth.

“At your service,” Widget said with a cheery salute. “Now hurry up before they catch you.” The four wanderers did not need further prompting. They dashed through the tunnel with the Preserver clinging to Halfwise’s shoulder. The rockshaper chortled and touched the stone again. The Door closed behind them just as Jand came gliding down the passage at top speed, leaving the black-haired hawkrider to crash into a solid wall. Widget shook his head commiseratingly at the stunned glider. Then he thoughtfully replaced the Door in his niche, set his tall plumed headdress back on his head, and patted him on the shoulder before vanishing into the stonework.

 

At first the four wanderers simply ran, the one thought in their minds to get as far away from Tower Mountain as they could. But when it became evident they were not being pursued, at least for the moment, Longshanks called a halt so they could catch their breath and orient themselves. Before they could do so, however, a shrill scream drew their eyes upward.

“No!” gasped Halfwise. “They’re fighting!” High above the Redrock Valley an aerial battle was going on. Two of the giant hawks were locked in combat, their great wings flailing, their beaks and talons flashing. Other birds were in the air, pursuing and pursued. As the four wanderers watched in horror, one of the fleeing hawks screamed and fell, its wings crumpling. They could not see what happened to its riders.

“The escape’s gone sour, that’s for sure,” Longshanks said somberly. “That information of Doleera’s must’ve put a hole in Twillor’s plan somewhere. Maybe it was a good thing we didn’t make it to the eyries.”

“What do we do now?” Bugdance wanted to know.

“We run, that’s what,” Longshanks said grimly. “And we’d probably better not go that way.” He pointed hub-back. “That’s where all the rest of ’em are going, and that’s where the Tower elves’ll be hunting. Anyhow, we could never climb that ridge without being spotted. It’s hubward for us, and fast.”

 

When he heard someone coming up the slope, Sket made a dive for the brush. He did not want the other children to catch him, or worse yet, one of the adult scouts. He was supposed to be watching the goats. He knew he would be punished if he was discovered here, so near the upper rim of the Redrock Valley’s bowl. But the other goatherds always laughed at him when he tried to play tunes on the reed pipe his father’s father had given him. So he had slipped away while the rest of them were all watching the great birds and come here to find privacy for his tootlings. He might not be very good at it yet, but he knew if he practiced long enough he could work out the tune of the Dance. It was a simple tune and the one he wanted most to be able to play. Sket would never forget the night of the festival, when the Son of the Great Spirit had come to the village and led them all in the Dance of Love, as the elders were already calling it. Just picturing the joyous, laughing face of the Lovebringer made Sket’s spirit glow within him.

The footsteps went past him, on up the slope. Curiosity overcoming his fear, Sket peeped out of the brush. What he saw made him gasp. There on the very edge of the Valley stood the Son of the Great Spirit, the Lovebringer himself. The sun gleamed on the golden torc around his neck and on the tears that streamed down his face as he looked back over the Redrock Valley. As Sket watched in mingled awe and horror, a voice called out in the spirit tongue. The young goatherd could not make out what it said. His lessons in the speech of the spirits had not progressed very far. At the sound of it the Spirit Lord’s son turned his back on Sket and vanished over the rim of the Redrock Valley.

The boy lay in the brush for several frozen moments, staring at the place where the spirit had been. The Lovebringer weeping? The Son of the Great Spirit fleeing the Valley? With a choked sob he burst from his hiding place and went tearing down the slope, all thought of punishment cast aside. Grandfather would be able to tell him the meaning of this terrible vision. Grandfather would know what to do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermaths ... and an epilogue.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Mikail was able to return to his rooms, weary in body and mind. He climbed the last few stairs with little of his usual grace. He was somewhat surprised to find lamplight leaking out from under the door-hanging. As he pushed the heavy cloth aside, the smell of wine hit him like a physical blow.

Nalkor sat slumped on the fur-covered couch at the far end of the room, a limp wineskin near at hand. The dark-haired hawkrider glanced up as Mikail entered. His brown eyes looked enormous in the dim light, his face gray and pinched with misery under the flush brought on by the wine. Nalkor was normally a moderate elf. He only drank heavily when in the depths of depression or despair. The most recent bout Mikail remembered was after that last awful shouting match the glider had with his father. The dancer hurried across the room to embrace his soulbrother. “Nalkor! Thank the High Ones you’re safe. No one could tell me anything.” He took Nalkor by the shoulders and looked him in the face. “You didn’t get away,” he said in a lower voice.

Nalkor met his gaze steadily despite the wine. “I couldn’t. Not without you. Told Twillor … he understood.” The glider’s eyes dropped, his face twisting with pain. “Betrayed…” he whispered. “My father—”

Mikail’s grip tightened. “What about Eylar? Is he—”

“Be all right. Mother and Reevirah are tending him. Hurt more in spirit than in body—Clearcry was killed. I caught him before he—why did he have to interfere, curse it?” Nalkor’s voice was ragged. “Giving a great performance, Twillor ’n’ me. You would’ve loved it, Mikail. Fine show … brave young hawkrider taking on renegade leader—lots of flashy flying, drawing lots of attention—real convincing, I guess. Convinced Father, all right.” He began to laugh in hiccupping gulps. “He said he was proud of me—proud! If he knew—” Nalkor broke off, shaking his head as if to drive out unwanted thoughts.

After a moment Mikail asked gently, “Was Broadspan hurt?”

“Only a few scratches. Nothing serious. Told you it was all show till Father got there.” Nalkor paused, then went on painfully, “Not like Silara. She was shot down—saw that out of the tail of my eye. Not sure who did it, but I think it was—Doleera.” The hawkrider looked up at his soulbrother’s face, searching for traces of disbelief, and found none. “I don’t know if anybody got away clean,” he finished miserably. “Tanyel, maybe. The last I saw of Twillor, he was flying off toward sun-up with three riders on his tail. If he was able to shake them—”

Mikail shook his head. “I fear not, my friend,” he said in a quiet voice. “Doleera caught up with him, killed his mount and captured him.”

“I was afraid of something like that,” Nalkor whispered, closing his eyes. “Twillor’s the best there is, but Doleera’s almost as good, curse her. And Dagger Wing was getting old … been through two fights already…” He grew very still for a moment. “Has Lord Tyaar questioned him yet?”

Mikail shook his head again, slowly. “No. I was with my lord uncle when Beliel came to tell him Twillor had been caught. His face was terrible, Nalkor. He—he has always loved Twillor, despite their arguments. He would not see him. He—he told Beliel that he and Doleera could do whatever they liked with Twillor, but that he never wished to look upon his face again nor hear his name spoken. I believe they took him down to the dungeons. I do not know what happened after that. I do not think I wish to. But I think our secret is safe with Twillor.”

Nalkor was silent for a few moments. Then he asked painfully, “Did anybody make it?”

“I think some did. I heard Lord Tyaar giving orders for a search, so there must be someone out there to search for. I haven’t heard a thing about Airwolf, so I assume he got out. Others may have been able to slip away in the confusion.” The dancer paused.

“What about your brother?” Nalkor asked in a low voice.

Mikail sighed deeply. “Safely away, and his companions with him. I know that much. Jand brought the news that the four of them had made it out of the main Door.” The shadow of a smile flickered about the dancer’s lips. “It isn’t often that I find myself feeling sorry for Jand. And I know I would have been told if they had been found.”

“I’m glad. And I’m sorry. I know you’ll miss him.”

“It is best this way,” Mikail said firmly. _But oh my friend, brother in all but blood,_ he added within himself, _I am selfish enough to be glad you did not leave me too. I do not think I could have borne losing both of you._ He moved the wineskin away as Nalkor reached for it. “Tears are a better anodyne than wine, my brother,” he murmured. He took the glider in his arms once more and held him while he wept.

 

There came a day when fear no longer pursued them, when they ceased to look up at the sky with apprehension or listen for the sound of searching wings. All four of the wanderers could feel it, as if they had come out from under a cloud or the stark shadow of a mountain. They were far beyond the range of the farthest hawkrider patrols, out of Lord Tyaar’s longest reach. The late Buddingtime sun seemed brighter for it, the breeze fresher. They camped that night at the bottom of a grassy dell, lit a fire for the first time in nearly two moons, and sat around it after supper talking, laughing, and telling stories until the moons were high in the sky.

“—and then the other troll says—” Heartseeker related.

“—‘That was no succulent young mushroom, that was my mate!’”Bugdance finished gleefully.

“Bugdance!” the small elf protested, before the others’ laughter infected him as well.

“Your turn, Halfwise,” Bugdance said after the merriment died down.

Halfwise looked thoughtful. “Well, I can’t remember any stories,” he said, “but—” He reached over and pulled his small pack to him, dislodging Flitterleaf, who fluttered over to perch on Bugdance’s pack instead. Rummaging in the pack, Halfwise drew out an elaborately decorated wooden flute.

The other three stared at the instrument. “Where’d you get that, Halfwise?” Longshanks asked him.

Halfwise looked up at him shyly. “Mikail gave it to me.”

The plains elf’s voice was gentle. “I didn’t know you played, Piet.”

“I didn’t know either till one day we were in the apple garden together. There was a human girl with a flute. She left it and I picked it up and tried it. Later on Mikail gave this one to me. I put it in my pack before I left, but I didn’t think about it till now.”

“Well, let’s hear something,” Bugdance suggested, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fisted hands.

“All right.” Halfwise closed his eyes, put the flute to his lips and began to play.

At first he played Tower Mountain, since the flute itself made him think of it: a slow, mournful tune, though beautiful in its way. Then the tune shifted as he thought of the bright day just past, becoming light and merry. Smiles came to his friends’ faces as they listened. Bugdance leaned over and began to beat out the rhythm on the hollow log Heartseeker was resting his back against, adding in variations as the music went on. After awhile the tune reminded Heartseeker of an old hunting song his tribe used to sing. He began to hum along. Halfwise seemed to sense the change of direction and soon he was playing the hunting song as Heartseeker sang it.

“Know this one, Piet?” Longshanks asked when the previous song came to a close. He began to sing his favorite new-green song of warm winds in the grasses. Halfwise picked it up easily. By the second verse Heartseeker was throwing in harmonies while Bugdance continued to beat out the rhythm. By the end of the song the jungle elf was singing too.

“Hey, we sound pretty good!” Bugdance said after the song ended. “Let’s have another one, Piet.” Halfwise looked at his curly-haired friend for a moment. Bugdance had never before called him by his true name. A smile came to his face. He raised the flute to his lips again. The tune he played this time was not one that any of them could remember hearing before, yet each of them felt it to be familiar.

For no reason at all, Longshanks found himself recalling a night many turns ago, before he and Bugdance discovered the Hidden Valley and released Piet, when the two of them were traveling alone. It was the first White-time after they had met, in fact, barely a season after the jungle elf rescued him from human captivity. The night was bitterly cold. Bugdance, who had never experienced really cold weather before, could not stop shivering, no matter how many furs he wrapped himself in. Finally Longshanks curled up with him and put all the furs over the two of them. Bugdance made some crack about it being a pity they were both male, but the action had comforted both elves. As their shared warmth enveloped them, they felt themselves drifting close to each other’s soul names. Yet at the last moment they had pulled back, not rejecting the intimacy exactly, but with the inexplicable feeling that _it wasn’t time yet_. Neither had ever spoken about the incident afterward, but as he met Bugdance’s eyes across the fire, Longshanks knew for a fact that Bugdance was remembering it too.

Was it time? There were four of them now, a number of completion. Whatever else Tower Mountain had done to them, through trial and temptation it had tested their friendship and found it strong. The music of the flute rippled on, a simple strange/familiar melody that probed hidden depths in all of them. Words began to form in Longshanks’ mind to go with the tune. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he began to sing them aloud.

_“Now it seems that we are still together,_  
 _And all the others never made it through._  
 _Someday we’ll find our place to stay,_  
 _But till we come across it, and even when we do,_

_It’s just the four of us, the circle never broken;_  
 _Yes, it’s the four of us, like fingers on a hand._  
 _After all is said and done, we’ll never be apart,_  
 _Brothers not in blood, but in the mind and soul and heart."_

The song flowed on, the others joining in as if they had known it for turns—as perhaps they had. Three voices, the flute, the beat, blended into a unity. Four pairs of eyes met each other across the flickering fire. Four souls spoke as one.

**Piet.**

**Myek.**

**Miki.**

**Daivi.**

It was a familiar song after all. They had always known it. They sang it many times that night as the moons shone in the sky and the stars looked down on them.

 

Later, when they had bedded down for the night and just before they drifted off to sleep, Longshanks touched minds with Halfwise. **You make good music, little brother.**

**We all do. I just wish—I wish Mikail could have heard it.**

Longshanks sighed. **Me too, Piet. But he’s got his own path to follow. Only thing we can do is follow ours, and let the High Ones watch over us all.**

**Do you think we’ll ever see him again?**

**I don’t know, Piet. I don’t ever want to go near Tower Mountain again, that’s for sure. But I guess anything can happen if you wait long enough. Even miracles. You get some sleep now.**

**Good night, Myek.**

**Good night, Piet.**

After a time, they slept.

 

   
 **Epilogue**

“You look pale today, Vallaree. Is anything wrong?” Mikail asked in concern as the younger dancer entered the practice room.

Vallaree shook her head unconvincingly. “N-no. I’m all right, really. I just—I think I ate something that disagreed with me. I felt a little queasy this morning. But it’s passed now. Are we going to go over the Hidden Valley duet today?”

“I had planned to. But if you don’t feel up to it, we can leave it for another time.”

“No, I’m fine!” she said with unusual sharpness. Mikail flung up his hands.

“Very well, if you say so. Exercises first, though.”

For awhile they did not speak, concentrating on bending and stretching and limbering up their bodies. But Mikail kept an eye on Vallaree and noted that the pallor did not leave the dancer’s face. Finally he glided up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Can’t you tell me what the trouble is?” he asked gently.

Vallaree paused in her exercises and stood silent, staring at the floor. Because of his friendship with Nalkor, Mikail had always been like a second elder brother to her. Later he had been her teacher, showing her another way to excel when she failed in her attempt to become a hawkrider. Reassurance seemed to flow now from his touch. She took a deep breath. “I—I guess I miss Bugdance,” she said in a small voice.

Mikail nodded understandingly. He knew that was not the only thing troubling her—the aftermath of the escape had shaken nearly everyone in the Tower, and Vallaree had admired Twillor—but at least she would admit this much. “I thought that might be it.”

She turned to look at him. “You did?”

“Yes. I have someone to miss too, remember.”

“Your brother. I know.” She looked at the floor again. “Father says I should forget about Bugdance, that he was just an Outsider. Th-that he didn’t really love me, or he wouldn’t have left me.” She looked at Mikail entreatingly. “But I know that isn’t so. He would have stayed if he could. He had to go with his friends, or—” Her voice sank to a whisper. “—or Lord Tyaar would have killed them.”

Mikail nodded. “I believe that is true.” He touched her face with gentle fingers. “But I also believe he would not want you to pine for him too long—certainly not to grow sad and pale over him. Not that merry heart. Don’t you think that’s so?”

She smiled tremulously. “I guess you’re right.”

“I know I am. Shall we dance the duet?”

They began the duet, the Dance of Joining from the story-dance of the Hidden Valley. The piece would never be performed now. Besides the touchiness of the subject matter, Twillor’s music had been banned within Tower Mountain along with his name. But Mikail had composed this particular dance as a special challenge for Vallaree, to display her grace and skill without using her gliding powers, since Lady Periel had had none. It made good practice. As the two of them drifted through the slow movements of the beginning sections, Mikail found, as he often did, that his hidden healer’s Talent was at work, reaching out to sense the rhythm of his partner’s body as well as monitoring his own.

Something was different, he realized suddenly. Vallaree was a longtime pupil. He knew her body’s pattern almost as well as he knew his own. But now something had changed. He almost knew… The quick section began. She whirled away from him, then turned and leaped into his arms. He caught her expertly about the waist—

—and nearly dropped her as his senses registered what the difference was.

“Mikail? What happened? Why did you stop?”

“I—ah—nothing, Vallaree. A touch of dizziness. I have not been sleeping well lately. Shall we rest for a little?”

“All right,” she said, confused. It was not at all like Mikail to admit to fatigue until he was practically dropping from it. She searched his face in puzzlement as he lowered her to the floor.

Meanwhile her mentor’s mind was whirling with questions. How could he tell her? Did she know? How could he convey to her that another life lay within her body—without letting her know he was a healer? For that knowledge was too dangerous to give to anyone who remained within Tower Mountain. “Vallaree … have you been having these queasy spells other mornings recently?”

“Yes, sometimes. Why?”

“Perhaps you should talk to your mother about it.”


End file.
